《Riotfish, Inc.: In Debt》 1 - The Galloway Escort, Part 1: Its Probably Fine
30 miles outside Concordium Unincorporated Territory June 21, 2443
David Fleer peered worriedly through one of the gun ports of the Battle Wagon. The deceptively pastoral landscape drifted by, grasslands and gentle green hills fading in the distance to friendly forests. Occasional grass-eating animals stood around, contemplatively grinding away at their cud.
The Riotfish mercenaries hunkered in the Battle Wagon as it trundled across the landscape on the poorly-maintained road, followed closely by a luxury gravcar that was easily worth ten times as much as their vehicle.
The Battle Wagon had been a military model in the distant past, some type of brick-shaped armored cargo van, but scratches, dents, and general mistreatment had flaked away most of the white paint, revealing older colors underneath. The wide gun ports were open, their armored port covers dropped down to give the Riotfish a clear view outside.
They were nearly home safe.
They puttered past a rusty sign. It had a silhouette of one of the cud-chewers, but the wording was faded with age and nearly unreadable.
"Something hornspitter something, danger of loud something not approach, something liability something," Fleer read, as best he could. "Hm. I wonder what that''s all about? Something about the creatures, I guess. No sign of bandits, in any case. Yet."
It might have seemed odd for a former corporate assassin to fear bandits, and truthfully, Fleer could handle a couple rowdy fellows. But the bandits of the Between were merciless hordes. They attacked by the hundreds-- armed madmen sweeping across a convoy like locusts, leaving picked-over vehicle husks and dead bodies in their wake.
When they left bodies, that is. Sometimes they took their victims with them.
In any case, the Riotfish were only thirty miles from safety. Thirty miles from their home base in Concordium, that vast unified city where anyone from any corporation could gather in peace and harmony. If you considered passive-aggressive voice messages and sharply-worded contracts "peace and harmony". But it was better to fight with contracts and policies than with bullets and bombs, usually. Concordium was the grandest, most breathtaking, and above all wealthiest city on the planet-- if you could get there.
Fleer moved to the back of the Battle Wagon and louvered open one of the rear windows to check the gravcar following them.
"Mr. Galloway''s in good shape," he informed the crew. "Good shape for now. No excitement." And because Fleer did not trust the malignancy of the universe, he added a little sotto voce "please."
He took a calming breath. The Riotfish were in a financial bind-- when weren''t they?-- but this job would put them in the black for the month. Cash flow positive for the first time in... he tried running some mental calculations, but gave up. It had been a long time.
They''d had some luck with a recon contract, followed by two weeks of guard augmentation for a corporation concerned about threats from a nearby corp''s territory. The escort mission they were on now would round out the month nicely, if their client paid up in the next week or so, and Mr. Galloway seemed like the paying-promptly kind. Which was great. Very strait-laced. It was also great that he never asked to meet any of the Riotfish crew, since they were all whatever the opposite of strait-laced was. Tangle-knotted?
In any case, a profitable month would keep them out of the soup. The crew could get paid, he would stay off the target lists of independent assassins, and they could carry on for another month. He sighed. It felt as though the last three years had been one long exercise in making the best of a bad situation, though at least he''d avoided making any more mistakes as big as he had when he''d bought the Riotfish.
A gentle snore rasped, and he turned to find Little Timmy, their perpetually unshaven demolitions expert, snoozing on one of the benches in his tattered jeans and a t-shirt. Support the author by searching for the original publication of this novel.
"Wake up!" Fleer barked. "You''re supposed to be watching for trouble on the passenger side!" Little Timmy blinked awake, parsed Fleer''s admonishment with little distress, and rolled his eyes.
"We haven''t seen anything in like, 200 miles," Little Timmy scoffed, but he nevertheless took his post on the passenger side and stared out his gun port at the scenery, resting his face on one hand. After a few minutes he began snoring again, sitting up.
Little Timmy was the kind of employee that resulted in eye-wateringly specific HR policies.
"Whee bungles," said Roger the lizardman. "Angry mangry flies! Zoot!"
Roger was a Dipso, one of the legendary race of lizardmen, and he shared the light-green skin and tapered head of his kind. But instead of being a ripply-muscled, keen-eyed warrior, Roger was the opposite of all those things. Skinny, with limbs and joints that hung at awkward angles, twitching randomly, with large round black eyes that rarely registered any intelligence. He wore a white t-shirt that hung loosely on his narrow frame, and cargo shorts that had probably been khaki once, tied to his waist with a knotted rope.
Roger sat on the floor of the Battle Wagon with his legs splayed out, working diligently to discover how far into his earhole he could jam his pinky finger. He kept turning his head at neck-snapping angles as he twisted his finger around. He was already up to the second knuckle, a personal record.
"Roger, do you want to keep watch for a while?"
Roger giggled lightly and popped his finger out of his earhole. He playfully somersaulted across the floor and climbed onto the bench, looking through the rear gun port on the driver''s side and flicking his tail.
Fleer wondered if he should have made everyone wear their uniforms, but it wasn''t as though Mr. Galloway was going to be popping into the back of the Battle Wagon to say howdy. It was fine.
It was probably fine.
The ruminant herd they''d been driving past was growing denser. The creatures looked like a cross between a rhinoceros and a goat with a goiter. They stood six feet tall at the shoulder, with large herbivore teeth and broad, flat heads. Their eyes poked comically out to the sides.
The Battle Wagon idled low. Their speed had been steadily drifting slower and slower over the last few miles. Fleer turned to his driver.
Mrs. Meade sat in the driver''s seat, her tiny, aged form dwarfed by the controls of the massive groundroller, with a wrinkled, absent smile permanently hanging on her face. She peered dimly through the windshield from under the rim of the steering wheel.
"Mrs. Meade, do you think we might be going a little too slow?"
"Oh, you''re right, dear," she answered.
The Battle Wagon sped up slightly. Coming up from idle, the sudden richer gas caused the elderly vehicle to backfire.
Everybody in the Battle Wagon jumped a little. "Just a little burp," Mrs. Meade reassured everyone.
Fleer tried to calm himself. He louvered the rear window open again to check on their charge.
One of the animals, having been startled by the sudden report, was charging the Battle Wagon.
"Brace for--!" was as far as Fleer got before a resounding WHAM shook the Battle Wagon, knocking him over. The heavy vehicle rocked, but the creature wasn''t satisfied. With a throaty bellow he charged again, this time bringing a few of his more adventurous brethren with him.
"Mrs. Meade, we need to go--" Fleer''s sentence was cut off as another ruminant strike shook the Battle Wagon. Fleer grabbed one of the hand straps hanging from the ceiling. He flipped open the rear louver to check on their escort.
Fleer spat a curse.
"Galloway''s under attack, too! Little Timmy, Roger, see if you can scatter the creatures from our rear."
Roger giggled as he grabbed one of the Borka automatic rifles off the rack. Little Timmy pulled a small satchel of high explosives from his stash and pushed in a timer. He eyed the attacking creatures and carefully pulled out the timing knob.
"Cover your ears!" he cried. He swung the dense satchel toward the louvers and the creatures outside.
The explosive bounced off the edge of the louver. It clattered loudly and fell back into the Battle Wagon.
"Oh frag," Little Timmy said.
Roger smoothly snatched up the satchel and stuffed it through the louver on his side. He dropped to the floor, with his hands covering his earholes.
With a roar, the explosion lifted the rear of the Battle Wagon off the ground, throwing them forward. Little Timmy scrambled back to his feet and peeked out.
"That''s one," he said, pointing at a messy spot on the road.
The explosion had drawn more of the hornspitters. The males were spoiling for a fight, and more of them began charging the Battle Wagon.
"Let''s see if we can just drive away from them!" Fleer shouted over the banging of near-constant attacks.
"Weebly whoopsing," Roger said, pointing outside.
"Oh no." Fleer watched two of the creatures slam into Mr. Galloway''s exceptionally expensive limousine. The light gravcar tipped, leaned, and rolled gently over onto its roof.
"Oh no no no," Fleer said. "Mrs. Meade, stop!" 2 - The Galloway Escort, Part 2: Let Me Get You a Kleenex
The brakes locked hard, tumbling everyone except for Little Timmy, who was holding one of the hand straps.
"Fire in the hole!" yelled Little Timmy.
"Wait!" cried Fleer.
Another explosion, and another spray of animal parts. The largest hornspitter roared and charged. The brakes were locked, but the impact still knocked the Battle Wagon forward three feet, its tires leaving thick black streaks on the road.
"Fine!" Fleer fumed. "We''ll go loud. Roger, take that big one out!"
Roger cackled, jammed the barrel of his Borka rifle through the louvers and began firing, his thick tail whipping back and forth in glee. It wasn''t clear whether Roger could hit the beast, since he wasn''t even looking outside, but the creature bellowed in pain and galloped off into a nearby field. The wounded cry made the rest of the herd skittish, and they backed off, watching the Battle Wagon warily.
The quiet only lasted a moment before Fleer began directing again.
"Okay, let''s go see what we can do for our client. Little Timmy, you''re with me. Roger, you stay in the Battle Wagon and be ready to help us get Mr. Galloway inside."
The back doors of the Battle Wagon creaked open, and Fleer peered out. The creatures were still nearby, watching him. Fleer gingerly stepped out.
"Do I have to?" Little Timmy whispered.
"Get out here!" Fleer hissed.
They crept toward the limo. The herd didn''t move. Fleer crouched down near the rear window of the overturned gravcar.
"Mr. Galloway, can you hear me?" Fleer called as loudly as he dared. He rapped on the glass of the inverted vehicle. "Mr. Gallo-- eep!" He started back as the window buzzed down. Or up, as was the case. Palmer Galloway''s grim visage appeared, hanging upside-down from his seat belt. The orientation was doing unusual things with his jowls and saggy cheeks.
He didn''t look happy about the situation.
"I am going to have a word with my assistant, a serious word, about her process for hiring mercenaries," Galloway said.
"Ah, I am very sorry, Mr. Galloway. Unforeseen circumstances. Um, let''s get you out. Please, let''s be as quiet as possible." Fleer drew his slim assassin''s blade and sawed through the thick nylon seat belt. Galloway landed in a crunched heap on the ceiling of his car.
The window at the front buzzed open and Little Timmy moved to help the driver.
Fleer helped Galloway to right himself and exit the vehicle while Little Timmy yanked fruitlessly at the driver''s seat belt. Fleer waved Little Timmy off and cut through the driver''s seat belt. The driver landed with more grace than his boss.
The hornspitters gazed at the quartet as they moved away from the limo. There was no apparent aggression, but Fleer didn''t want to set them off again.
The four crept toward the Battle Wagon. Galloway tried his best, but he was not built for stealth. He was built for sitting behind a boardroom table and yelling at subordinates.
"Can they see us?" Galloway huffed, trundling along behind Fleer.
"Probably, sir, but let''s just stay quiet and calm."
They were nearly to the Battle Wagon when Galloway poked Fleer in the shoulder with a sausage-thick finger.
"Hey," he whispered. "Wait. I forgot my datapad."
Fleer schooled his expression to stillness, taking a moment to keep his face from costing them this contract.
"Can we leave it? We''re nearly safe."
"Not a chance. My assistant Julie puts all my stuff on there. I can''t possibly do anything without it." Reading on Amazon or a pirate site? This novel is from Royal Road. Support the author by reading it there.
"I''d advise, sir, in the strongest possible terms--"
"I don''t care what you advise. You got us into this mess. I need my datapad."
It was times like these that Fleer had mastered the art of gritting his teeth without it showing.
In the black, he reminded himself. An actual profit this month.
"Do you know where it is, sir? I can go fetch it for you."
"I want to get it. I know just where it is."
"Okay. Okay. Little Timmy, take the driver--" One of the creatures grunted heavily. Everybody froze, but nothing else happened. Fleer continued in a softer tone. "Take the driver to the Battle Wagon and you two strap in. Mr. Galloway and I will be back shortly."
Fleer and Galloway crept back to the limo, a long, tense walk. Galloway crawled back into the limo and started banging around.
"Sir, please be careful about the noise," Fleer said quietly. One of the hornspitters was watching them.
"I can''t find it," Galloway called, much louder this time. Apparently he felt more comfortable making noise in his vehicle, topsy-turvy as it was. "Oh, I found the datachip with the quarterly report. I''ve been needing that."
"Please sir, let''s focus," Fleer whispered as the creature snuffled closer.
Galloway banged away in the limo, taking his time. "Not in the overhead storage. Huh. I wonder if I left it in the door compartment?"
The hornspitter drew closer.
"Ha! Whaddayaknow? It was in my pocket the whole time. I thought it fell out when we turned over. Last place you look, right? Well at least I got--" Galloway froze as he poked his head out of the limo. Fleer had plastered himself against the side of the overturned limo as one of the massive bulls sniffed at him.
"Sir," Fleer whispered, "please make your way to the Battle Wagon as quickly and quietly as you can."
Galloway nodded, crawled out of the limo, and tiptoed around Fleer and the creature.
He was halfway back to the Battle Wagon when the bull lost interest in Fleer.
It snuffed twice and grunted, turning toward Galloway.
Galloway tried to unobtrusively speed up. The hornspitter, curious, followed. Galloway sped up again and so did the bull. Galloway upgraded to a stiff-legged power walk, and the animal easily matched him.
"Sir, please don''t panic," Fleer called.
Galloway was heaving and sweating and clinging to the outer edge of his equanimity. He was actually doing well until the bull got close enough for Galloway to feel the snorting breath on the back of his neck. Losing the last of his restraint, Galloway squealed and broke into the kind of waddling run performed by indifferently-healthy executive types who hadn''t exercised since childhood. Faster, and faster, and faster still until the portly executive was sprinting. The animal effortlessly closed the distance.
Fleer bolted after them both, fruitlessly hollering to draw the hornspitter''s attention. Fleer was more athletic than Galloway, and faster, but not fast enough.
"Roger!" he yelled. "Open the door!"
The exec was bolting to the rear of the Battle Wagon, but Roger opened the passenger side door and poked his head out.
"The rear door, you maniac!" Galloway panted.
Roger nodded. Galloway, who''d already diverted to reach the passenger door, squawked indignation as Roger slammed it shut. He yanked fruitlessly on the handle a couple times, then turned back to return to the rear of the vehicle. Galloway came face-to-face with the hornspitter.
He squeaked, trapped against the side of the Battle Wagon as the huge creature stared him down.
Knowing his slim blade would be useless against a creature of this size, Fleer tried a flying tackle as he reached the ruminant. He slammed into the bull''s flank with a grunt. It snorted annoyance and casually flicked out a hoof that caught Fleer in the ribs and sent him tumbling.
Turning back to Galloway, the hornspitter started huffing. It appeared to grow larger the more it huffed and leaned over the terrified suitman. Fleer struggled to stand; the wind had been knocked out of him.
The bull snorted and lowered its head, its crazed red-and-yellow eyes burning into the exec. It lifted its head and let out a bellowing roar, shattering the stillness. Galloway screamed, splayed out against the side of the Battle Wagon.
The creature suddenly made a sound like a cross between a hard sneeze and a belch, blasting the side of the Battle Wagon with a spray of heavy, cud-laden mucus.
"Aaaaaagh," gurgled Galloway.
The hornspitter, having made its point, huffed, turned, and trotted away.
Fleer, trying to catch his breath, hobbled over to Galloway. He almost turned back again when the smell hit him. It was a heady mix of rotten grass, bile, and ferment. The Battle Wagon sported a patch of nastiness where the spray had hit, with a clean spot in the silhouette of a man on the vehicle. Galloway lay on the grass, retching.
"Are you all right, sir?" Fleer asked, being careful not to breathe through his nose.
"I had my mouth open," Galloway gasped.
"Wheezly bumpkins!" Roger hollered, slamming open the rear doors.
Galloway sat in the back of the Battle Wagon, wrapped in an old camp blanket and Fleer''s jacket. His suit lay on the side of the road some distance back, since it was a solid wad of hornspitter sputum.
The gun ports, louvers and windows were all open as far as they would go to give the stench a chance to escape, but the Battle Wagon had been designed for protection, not airflow. Everyone sat as close to the windows as they could.
Galloway fumed and shivered miserably.
"I am very sorry, sir," Fleer apologized again. "Is there anything we can get for you?"
"A tub of acetone to wash in," Galloway snapped. He sniffed, but quickly thought better of it. He gagged a little and pulled the blanket more tightly around himself as they finally pulled up to the gates of Concordium.
"I''m beginning to seriously reconsider my fear of flying," he said. 3 - How To Lose a Contract in One Easy Step
David Fleer had only thought being a corporate assassin was dangerous. Running a business, he decided, was worse.
He stared down through the rungs at the ground thirty feet below, clutching the creaking green ladder as it swayed under him. He was trying to hold on to the paint and the brush and the ladder with too few hands as a stiff wind pushed him around.
"I should have hired someone to do this," he said out loud. Painting wouldn''t have been his first choice, but it needed to be done and it got him out of the HQ. The miasma from the Battle Wagon''s hornspitter misadventure had seeped out of the garage into the rest of the building, mixing with the odors of stale humanity, machine oil, and indifferently prepared meals. Fleer felt that the air outside, for all that it was summertime in the Industrial District, was a marked improvement.
Fleer clung miserably to the ladder and gingerly reached out to apply more paint to the dull, rust-patched wall of the warehouse. The stiff brush left gobs, bubbles, and streaks as he pushed it across the wall. He was trying to carefully paint around a weathered sign and mostly failing.
The handmade sign, ill-maintained and missing letters, read: "Riotfish, Inc. Mercenaries For Hire"
Below that, in smaller letters, a motto with more enthusiasm than grammar: "We will Shot people For Money"
Beneath that, in even smaller letters, almost unreadable now due to age: "Hourly Rat s Av ilable. Inqui e Wit in"
Fleer made a face. That needed repainting too. He considered his handiwork on the wall so far. The sign was definitely going to be hired out.
And they''d probably want money for it. He sighed.
The front door creaked open below him. The wind caught it and slammed it fully open, marring the fresh paint. Fleer twitched.
A squat, squarish dwarf sporting an enormous handlebar mustache popped out and hung out the door with a worried expression.
"Sorry! Boss? Mr. Fleer? There''s a call for you."
"Oh! I''ll be right there, D''khara." Fleer started down the ladder, which rattled and shook and nearly managed to throw him off. Dropping his brush, he grabbed the top of the rickety ladder, and winced as the paintbrush left a flat white splat on the sidewalk below. He clutched his way down the rest of the ladder and briefly marveled at the paintbrush that could not be persuaded to part with paint on a wall, but left a perfect stain on the sidewalk. He picked up the tired brush, tossed it in a bucket of water, and stepped inside.
The dim coolness of the warehouse was almost chilly after the heat outside. Fleer pulled the door to, slammed it when it failed to latch, then slammed it harder to let it know he meant business. The finicky latch finally held the door shut. He turned to his right and walked down the narrow entry hallway, with the exterior steel wall to his right, and a huge curtain to his left. It hung from the ceiling thirty feet above, making a crude sort of wall.
The hallway looped back and opened into a recreational area, which held a ragged collection of ugly furniture, a ping-pong table with a visible gap between the leaves, and a holopad two generations out of date. Little Timmy lounged on the sagging sofa. He was average height and lean, with a ropy musculature. He was dressed in a faded band t-shirt and thin ratty jeans. His eyes were ice-chip blue, with pupils shrunk to pinprick points staring intently out of a waxy, gaunt face. His prematurely gray hair was cut short, which didn¡¯t prevent it from sticking out in crazy clumps and spikes. He was watching an action movie that featured insufficiently-clad women with improbable anatomy engaging in even more improbable firefights.
Fleer nodded at the lounging mercenary in acknowledgment as he walked through, and was roundly ignored for his efforts.
Past the rec area, against the west wall of the warehouse, was Fleer''s office. He looked at the paint on his hands, and decided they wouldn''t be seen in the video. He pulled a sport coat from a hanger on the wall, threw it on, and sat down in front of his computer.
He straightened his hair, straightened his collar and then punched the hold button. Support the author by searching for the original publication of this novel.
"Hello!" he said brightly. "You''ve reached David Fleer of Riotfish, Incorporated, home of the finest and bravest mercenaries in Concordium! How can I help you today?"
The woman on the other end of the line recoiled at Fleer''s sudden appearance.
"Yes," she said, recovering. "I''m Adeline Thomson, of Lemon Key Industries. I saw your advertisement in the local nets. Our company is looking for some help covering a staffing gap in the guard schedule for our facilities."
Fleer winced a little internally. Guard duty was not going to make the crew happy, but needs must.
"It is great to hear from you, Ms. Thomson. Yes! We have extensive experience with facility protection and threat detection. How many spots were you looking to fill?"
"Well, I was hoping for a little more information about your business first. We''re interviewing a number of agencies, trying to be mindful of our budget."
Fleer crumbled a little more inside.
"Well, I think you''ll find our services are extremely economical, without sacrificing an ounce of quality. Every job is important!"
"Excellent. I was curious, though. I searched through your site, and I couldn''t find your Mercenary''s Guild membership number. Could I get that from you to verify a few things?"
Fleer''s smile grew a little glassy.
"I''m glad you brought that up!" he lied enthusiastically. "You see, we here at Riotfish have found that, while there are benefits to membership in the Mercenary''s Guild, the requirement of a corporate sponsor risks conflicting with the interests of our valued clients!"
There was no response. He soldiered on.
"Furthermore, the savings in Guild dues and fees can be passed directly along to our customers, making our services even more budget-friendly!"
Adeline Thomson stared at him icily.
"You don''t have a Guild membership," she stated flatly.
"It''s a benefit for our clients, that we''re able to--"
The screen blipped off as she disconnected, leaving Fleer staring at his reflection in the screen''s sudden blackness.
"--to, to, to be rejected early, without all that time spent negotiating and signing contracts and maybe making some money," he finished, sagging. In the gloomy blackness of his reflection, he noticed he had a glob of shock-white paint stuck in his hair.
Fleer sighed. The Mercenary''s Guild parceled out those memberships with a stingy fist. Any mercenary outfit wanting to join had to obtain corporate sponsorship.
Can''t get sponsorship without doing flashy, attention-grabbing jobs. Can''t get the flashy, attention-grabbing jobs without a Guild membership. Can''t get the Guild membership without a corporate sponsor.
He shook his head, pushing aside the familiar, fruitless tailchasing.
There was a lead, sort of. They''d had a company reach out to them to discuss sponsorship. Fleer had been hunting for a sponsor the three years he''d owned Riotfish, and these fellows, a company called Vermiforme, had called him up out of the blue, which was a nice change. Negotiations had been slow, and if Fleer was being honest with himself for a change, Vermiforme worried him some. But they were literally the only people who''d ever even talked to him about a sponsorship.
He should give them a call, see if he couldn''t unstick the process. They might be ready to discuss terms.
He did what he could to get the paint out of his hair, then poked his computer to call Yanni at Vermiforme.
The screen bleeped for an extended time, flashing and fading, waiting for the other end to pick up.
The video blipped on, showing a fellow in a button-up shirt with the sleeves rolled up. He was looking away from the camera at another monitor while slurping noisily on a fountain drink.
Perhaps he didn''t know he''d answered the call?
"Mr. Yanni?" Fleer said.
Yanni held a hand up to Fleer''s screen while he watched the other monitor.
After a long thirty seconds, he finally turned to his call.
"Oh, hey!" he said loudly, "It''s my guy David! Fleisch, right?"
"Fleer."
"Right, right, that''s what I said. What''s up?" He turned back to the other monitor.
"Yes, I was calling about..." Fleer frowned as Yanni continued watching the other monitor. "Um, can you hear me okay?"
"You''re fine," Yanni replied, never glancing back at Fleer.
"Right, well, you may remember that you reached out to my company, Riotfish, Inc., several months ago to discuss sponsoring us? For our membership in the Mercenary''s Guild?"
"Yuh-huh."
"And we filled out quite a lot of paperwork, you know, and filed our declaration of intent with the Mercenary''s Guild, and paid for the application and--"
"Yep."
"And anyway, I was wondering if you had any questions, or if there was anything I could do from my end to help with the process. See, the Guild won''t let the membership move forward until you finish the submission on your end."
"Uh-huh."
A long pause drew out.
"So if you--"
"Hey yeah, I need to talk to Sonam, he does all the paperwork."
"But he said you--"
"Hey, I got another call. But we''re still crazy into the idea of sponsoring! That looks good for us, right? Good for us, good for you. Win-win all round."
"Right, so if you could--"
"Hey I gotta run, I''ll call you back in five!"
And the screen blipped off.
Fleer knew the call was not coming, but he waited thirty minutes for it anyway.
He finally picked himself up in a huff, tossed his sport coat into his chair and walked back to continue painting. Little Timmy was still lounging on the sofa, but now the holopad was flickering, stuck between two images.
"Holopad''s on the fritz," Little Timmy said.
Fleer nodded and trudged outside. 4 - Dkhara, Roger, and the Wombat
Fleer pulled up the financial spreadsheets. He had gotten the painting done, for a given definition of done, and had come back in to work out how to cover the rest of the month, since the Galloway job had ended in disaster. Bernard Walker was scheduled to be in later, and theoretically he might pay them, but it was more likely he would simply be bringing in a fresh batch of excuses.
Fleer had determined to get through the financials today, but all they showed was the same depressing water-treading they''d been doing for months: juggling bills, delaying payments to vendors, and keeping just ahead of creditors.
He''d negotiated some favorable settlement terms with their vendors, having neatly mastered the gentle art of borrowing from their suppliers, but their ammo vendor''s emails had stopped being polite weeks ago. They''d passed through a "snippy" phase and were now entering "veiled threats" territory.
Whatever. He swept the spreadsheets aside and pulled up the job boards. There was only so much he could do with the finances if they weren''t making money. They needed to land another job.
Fleer spun through the filters on the Guild''s job boards, limiting the results to jobs the Riotfish were qualified for. Here was the usual list of too-small-to-bother-with contracts, breathtakingly underfunded jobs, and jobs posted by people who clearly didn''t understand how the Guild''s job boards worked (this one, for example, looking for a minimum of 100 men for an operation, posted on the board for mercenary companies with fewer than 50 soldiers).
Fleer sighed. Lots of oranges, but no juice. Like always.
It had been so, so much easier in the corporate world. The packet would come to his desk with a name and particulars. He''d do the job. He''d file the followup paperwork. Then, he''d spend his time pretending to be busy while waiting for the next packet. His title of "Director of Terminal Negotiations" had been boring but apt, and was a much more boardroom-friendly title than "Corporate Assassin". As the company TermNeg, he''d facilitated dozens of deals and helped break negotiation blockages in between long stretches of solitaire.
Of course, that was before it all went bad.
It was hard to believe now that he''d ever been bored with having nothing to do. Now, he spent every day wading through a sea of things that should have been done weeks ago, paddling upstream against a river of critically needful tasks and bills that never stopped flowing in, never shrank, and never got any easier to pay.
One of these days, though.
One of these days they''d have the Guild membership, the budget, and the staff to take on the big jobs. Someday he''d strut back into the boardrooms, lay out his terms, and have them accepted, just like that. Someday, the corps would come back to him, hats in hand, asking if his company had the bandwidth to service their contract. Someday. Yeah, that''d be the ticket.
A loud crash echoed back from the kitchen, followed by a minor explosion and a lot of swearing. Fleer laid his head on his desk. Little Timmy was testing his compounds in the kitchen again. Which meant that Mrs. Meade would be in soon to complain about it. Again.
After allowing himself a moment of self-pity, Fleer lifted his head to face the jobs board. Time to glean the fields.
Well, hold on.
A new job had popped up. Fleer clicked in, his heart rate picking up a little. He scanned the contract.
This was another one that had been misfiled, but maybe in his favor. It had obviously been intended for the spec ops board, but had landed here in Fleer''s skillet.
He spun through the details. Some kind of infiltration, lifting records stored at a residence.
The contract was for a company named Datatura. It was an old name, which meant old money, which meant they weren''t squeezing every nickel. Medium-sized company, so they were probably not looking to expand their territory, which meant no dangerous assault work. It wasn''t guard work, which the guys would appreciate, and the listing strongly hinted that a success here could be a prelude to an ongoing series of contracts.
Fleer sure liked the sound of that. Every month was scrabbling and squeezing for contracts, and stretching the finances to cover months when there were no contracts to be had. A regular series of contracts would take a huge load off his mind.
This was what he''d been waiting for, hoping for. With a high-profile success and ongoing work, he could really pound the pavement, do some networking, put some feelers out about corporate sponsorship.
The Riotfish were not perfectly qualified for this work, but close enough, surely. If the matchmakers didn''t flag him, and if he talked his way into it, this could be their big break!
He scrolled down to the requirements. "Experience in infiltration?" Well, guard work was preventing infiltration, so yeah, they kind of fit for that. "Air support preferred" but anything with "preferred" could be ignored. "Larger team needed." Hmm. That would take some creativity to work around. Including himself, they had six members. Seven, depending on how you were counting. But Oliver, their strategist, was a master at making do. And what did "larger" mean anyway? Probably just covering for teams that depended on their body count instead of their wits to get a job done.
Yes. They could do this. They would do this. They needed work, and here was work.
He quickly pulled together a promotional packet, informational payload and a proposal and fired it off to the Datatura contact. Perfect. Because he''d been watching at the right time, it had been fewer than fifteen minutes from the posting to the proposal. Being the first to respond was a huge advantage.
He waited breathlessly to see if the automated matchmakers would flag him for the Riotfish being too small, but after a few minutes, all the indicators stayed green. Then the message came back that the proposal had been accepted for consideration. Royal Road is the home of this novel. Visit there to read the original and support the author.
He was so excited his feet almost made little tippy-taps on the floor. Getting his promo material through the system and in front of an actual client was a huge first step. He had a really good feeling about this one.
With a huge grin, he stretched back.
This contract could keep them solvent for months.
Satisfied with a job well done, he switched to his messages and pulled up a colorful marketing flyer to read through.
"AME CONFERENCE 2443!" the text screamed.
"The Association of Mercenary Executives invites you to this year''s conference, with a keynote by Randall Striker, CEO of The Jolly Rogers Inc.! Listen to presenters from across the industry discuss the issues facing today''s mercenary executive. Hosted in the luxurious Cableway Hotel deep in Corporate Pines, the biggest corporate subdistrict outside Concordium! Catering by FoodFactory! Early bird rates available. The conference hotel is filling up quickly, so reserve your room today!"
He pictured the classy hotel, the tasteful buffet, the vendor swag, and the industry talks and insights. He pictured himself wheeling deals, networking, and handing out dozens-- possibly hundreds-- of business cards. He imagined the leads, partnerships and deals he could hammer out. He could show that Riotfish, Inc. was a real, for-true mercenary outfit, ready to roll with the big boys.
The AME conference was something Fleer had wanted to attend for a long time. If this Datatura contract panned out, this would be the year he could go.
A quiet knock tapped at his office door, and a reedy, elderly voice floated through.
"Mr. Fleer? I need to talk to you about Little Timmy''s behavior in the kitchen today."
Fleer sighed.
"Yes, come in, Mrs. Meade."
D''khara glared up at Roger. Roger, whose arms hung loosely by his sides, gazed uncomprehendingly back at him. His lizard tongue darted up to lick his own eyeball. D''khara suppressed a shudder. He tried really, really hard to be open-minded about working with a lizardman, he really did, but days like today made him want to scream back to his Dwarvish roots, howling and swinging axes and making his opinions viscerally known.
He sighed forcefully and focused on the issue at hand.
"Tell me, Roger. Did. You eat. My lunch."
Roger rolled his shoulders in a jerky, uncontrolled way that could have been a shrug, or could have been random damaged neurons firing signals down his spine.
"Roger."
"There were... many happies?" Roger''s sibilant voice sounded hopeful.
"No. Not many happies. Now I don''t have any lunch. How did you even eat my whole lunch? There''s nothing to you!"
It was true that Roger was woefully underweight, even though he topped D''khara by two and a half heads.
D''khara''s penetrating eyes glared at Roger.
"Oh!" said Roger. "Oh! It was!"
He paused. With Roger, a conversation took time, and some patience.
"It was the wombat! Sweeping grace and hungry fatbellies!"
"Roger, there is no wombat here."
"Yes! And it was! Him. They ate it. They all ate it all. Up!"
D''khara gestured around the ramshackle kitchen.
"Roger, think with me here. We''re in the middle of a city 120 miles across, which has not seen anything as natural as a weed in three lifetimes, and you''re telling me that a marsupial native to the other side of the planet wandered in and ate my lunch?"
Roger smiled, rolled another shrug-not-shrug, and poked himself heartily in the eye. D''khara winced.
"As clouds in rain!"
"Look," he said, pressing his hands together, "could you please stop--"
"Hi, Roger. Hi, D''khara." Fleer bustled into the kitchen heading for the fridge. "How are things?"
"I have a pony!" crowed Roger.
"Excellent, good good." Fleer poked his head into the fridge. "Are you getting along with D''khara, our new hire?"
"Wheezle and biscuits!"
"Happy to hear it," Fleer replied, picking his way around in the fridge. "Oh, D''khara, I apologize, but I think your lunch was ruined. We had that Australian fellow in this morning, Bernard Walker? He was doing his usual routine of demanding that we change all our processes to suit him." Fleer''s voice grew muffled as he dug deeper in the fridge. "You know, wanting favors on the net terms and all that. I said to him, ''Bernard, you still haven''t fully paid for the last three jobs, why would I give you better terms?'' And he''s all like, ''I bring you lots of exposure,'' which, let''s face it, we need, but all his exposure''s on another continent. Ha!"
Fleer popped out of the fridge, triumphantly holding a jar of pickles.
"Anyway," he continued, wringing at the pickle jar lid, "get this: he struts in with this wombat! On a leash! Right into my office! And I said to him, ''I''ll thank you not to bring wild animals into my office,'' then he said ''Oy, my little sheila here ain''t wild'' but he tied it up outside my office and it got loose and tore up some stuff, which of course Bernard claimed was already torn up, but really, how much of our equipment could have already had wombat tooth marks on it?" Giving up on the pickle jar, he held it out. "Roger, would you be so kind?"
Roger snatched up the jar and began wrestling with it.
"I''ll tack it all onto what Bernard owes. Not that he ever really pays." Fleer sighed. "Anyway, all that to say, his animal got into the kitchen and ruined some of the food, including your lunch. I put some extra on your chit if you want to go out and grab something to eat." With a cartoonish pop, the lid came loose, and Roger held the jar out to Fleer.
"Ah, thank you, Roger," he said as he fished around in the jar, extracting a pickle and handing the jar back to Roger. Crunching contentedly, Fleer wandered off, calling over his shoulder, "Let me know if you fellows need anything!"
D''khara stared after Fleer, mouth open, concussed by events for a solid half a minute.
Well, first things first.
Turning back to Roger, he said, "Roger, I have to apolo-- are you drinking that?"
Roger clutched the jar to his chest, wearing an angelically innocent expression, liberally smeared with the aftereffects of having chugged half a jar of pickle juice.
"It was the puppy?" he offered hopefully.
"It doesn''t matter. I''m sorry I accused you of taking my lunch, when it was... actually... a wombat."
"Hahahahaha!" replied Roger. "What''s a wombat?"
Fleer was calling Vermiforme again. He just knew if he were persistent enough, he''d get them to finally sign off on sponsorship, and the Riotfish ascendancy could finally begin.
Fleer kept his best sales face on as the call connected, showing a heavy man crabbed behind a desk overflowing with papers and junk.
Sonam was thick and swarthy, with thinning hair, full lips and a scowl that looked like it was stamped on him right down to the genes.
Fleer tried to bring the mood up.
"Mr. Sonam! How wonderful to speak with you! I''m so glad that we could finally connect!"
"Yeah? Well that''s one of us. What do you want?"
"Ah, well, I''m David Fleer with the Riotfish, Inc., and your company reached out to us several months ago about sponsoring our membership in the Mercenary''s Guild. As I''m sure you''re aware, sponsorship has many benefits--"
"This sounds like one of Yanni''s stupid ideas."
"Well, he mentioned that you''d be the one to talk to about--"
"I don''t have time for Yanni''s stunts. Go talk to him about it."
"Right, but he said that you--"
But the screen blipped off.
Fleer gave himself a moment, then forcefully unclenched his teeth.
They had to get this Datatura contract. 5 - Fleer Starts Making Bad Decisions
It was two days later when Fleer strode back into the rec room with a huge grin on his face. Little Timmy was stretched out on the sofa watching the holovid. D''khara was hunched over a datapad with a worried frown, reading a technical manual. Roger was splayed out on the rug, staring raptly at the patterns in the worn floor covering. Mrs. Meade was peering down through her reading spectacles as she worked on some knitting.
"Good news, everyone!" Fleer chirped, playfully slapping Little Timmy''s foot off the arm of the sofa. "We''ve got a contract!"
D''khara sat up straight. Mrs. Meade blinked slowly and laid her knitting aside. Roger rolled over from his spot on the floor.
Fleer waved a datapad around.
"I got a signature of intent this morning! We''ve got a heist on the books!"
"A heist?" D''khara asked.
"More or less," he said, looking through the text on his datapad. "We''ve been asked to acquire some files from the estate of one Sir Oscar Byrd. It''s a mansion out in Artois, the older, moneyed part of the Eastern Residential district. Lovely place, from what I''ve seen. We''ll just nip in and grab the files. Easy peasey!"
"Feeble bunks!" Roger contributed.
"What are these files?" D''khara asked. "What kind of system do they have?"
"That''s the best part!" Fleer crowed. "They''re paper files! We literally just have to pick them up and walk away with them!"
"Paper?" Little Timmy looked confused.
"Yeah, I''m not sure about the idea of paper," D''khara offered, his brow twisting in disapproval.
"No systems to hack, no countermeasures to work past. Guys, this is going to be so easy. We can totally do this!"
Mrs. Meade picked her knitting back up.
"Has Mr. Oliver approved the contract?" Mrs. Meade asked.
"Approved, and he''s working on our infiltration plan right now!"
"Well, if he approves, then I approve. He''s a level-headed young man." Her needles began clicking again. "What are the terms of the contract, Mr. Fleer?" she asked.
"Well, we get 10% up-front, and the rest once we hand the files to the client. Standard division among all participants. 60,000 credits total."
"Oh, won''t that be nice."
Fleer nodded.
"Little Timmy, do you still have that stick welder?" he asked.
"Uh. I guess. Somewhere."
"Great, we''ll need to make some minor modifications to the Battle Wagon."
Mrs. Meade''s needles stopped entirely and her expression drew down.
"Just what kind of modifications were you thinking of making to my Battle Wagon, Mr. Fleer?" she asked, a tinge of ice in her voice.
"Minor," he emphasized. "Just a couple small mortar tubes firing saboted grapnels. We''ll need something to get us through the gates, and Oliver thought we might be able to winch them down."
"Well," she harrumphed. "As long as it doesn''t cause any damage to the armor, I suppose that''s acceptable."
"And a couple small explosive charges to fire the things of course. And maybe something in the grapnels to drive them into the stone on impact. Little Timmy, do you think you can mix us up a compound for all that?"
"I''ve got what you need, boss-man."
"Excellent!" Fleer''s voice dropped into the fast, low monotone people use when spinning through legalese. "Per Mercenary''s Guild guidelines, all contracts are strictly voluntary for every employee and refusal of a job does not affect any employee''s consideration for any future jobs." He continued in a more normal tone, "So, can I count on everyone''s participation in this operation?"
A chorus of lukewarm agreement circled the room.
Fleer beamed. A decent contract, and now maybe some steady work.
Things were finally looking up for the Riotfish.
Humming, Fleer scanned the red-lined contract he''d just received back from Datatura, approved all the changes, and signed it with his private key. Done. A nice, fat contract sealed, easy money in the bank.
Fleer pulled up his messages and spun through them to find the AME promo again, a little thrill going through him. This was it. With the money from the Datatura contract, they''d easily have enough money for him to go. He grinned hugely. Things were falling into place.
At the conference, he''d be able to establish himself-- establish the Riotfish-- as real mercenaries. He could use the upcoming Datatura contract as a testimonial and marketing point, prove that Riotfish, Inc. was a legitimate company with capable, competent mercenaries. Maybe even, dare he hoped, sweep up a better corporate sponsor than Vermiforme. This book''s true home is on another platform. Check it out there for the real experience.
Of course, if Datatura liked their work, there was no reason they couldn''t put in to sponsor the Riotfish too. Fleer briefly fantasized about having multiple corporations sparring for the opportunity to sponsor him.
Yes. This conference was the key. No more stretching the truth and hoping people didn''t pry too much during sales calls. The Riotfish would have earned their bona fides.
He drank in the ad again, but frowned suddenly as he looked at the dates of the conference. The conference overlapped with the dates Datatura had blocked off for the delivery of the papers.
Fleer thought for a moment. That wasn''t necessarily a dealbreaker-- Mrs. Meade could courier the papers, with Oliver for protection. As lead strategist, Oliver could sign off on the work as well.
But with the time required for planning and prepping, the week of the conference was going to be about the only week they''d be able to do the job.
He could either do the Datatura contract, or go to the conference. Glumly, he closed the promo.
Of course... he didn''t really need to be on hand for the job, did he? Oliver''s plans were pretty solid, and this one wasn''t complicated: the crew would bust in and make a lot of noise and mess while Fleer snuck into the file room and grabbed the files. But really, anybody who could read could handle Fleer''s part.
It was true that the Riotfish benefited from guidance on occasion, but this job was straightforward enough that they didn''t need him there. Not as such.
But he needed the money from the Datatura contract to be able to afford to go to the conference.
Or did he?
If he knew the money was coming in short order, he could bridge the finances a little.
He popped open the financials, edging his eyes around some of the uglier parts. Yes, the travel budget still had a little, almost enough for the flight, the rest of which he could probably cover from petty cash. The conference fees, as always, were outrageous, but that fell firmly into the training budget. The hotel-- well, he was going to have to get creative there. Some from the training budget, sure, but now travel was tapped. He could push off their suppliers a little more, though. Just a couple weeks, until the Datatura job paid out.
Yes. This was it. He could do this! This would be the year that Riotfish, Inc. became a real business!
Now to let Oliver know.
The war room was dimly lit, except for the glaring light of the projector shining down onto the table. Maps, timetables and checklists glowed on the surface in neatly stacked rows. Fleer reached a finger out to slide them around, trying to make sense of Oliver''s files without disorganizing them.
He frowned at the shadow his hand cast on the table as it blocked the light from the overhead projector. One of these days, he''d be able to afford a real display table, the kind that projected the image up from the surface, making it easier to see the documents as you were shuffling them around.
He straightened and wandered out of the war room looking for Oliver. It was time to let him know he was going to be a man short for this mission.
Fleer walked into the kitchen. On the stove was a giant pot containing a thick, slowly bubbling semi-gelatinous mass. In front of the stove towered an orc, thickly muscled and over nine feet tall, with rock-brown skin and long, ape-proportioned arms. He had a low, heavy brow and a giant, round, jutting jaw. A single rough tusk rose from the right side of his jaw. His broad, flat feet were bare.
"Ho, Oliver. What is it today? Lunch, or an experiment?"
Oliver wore a toque, and as he turned toward Fleer, he revealed that he was also wearing a frilly apron bearing the legend "Do Not Mess With The Cook''s Buns". The massive orc held a ladle delicately pinched between a thumb and forefinger. He stared down at Fleer from his towering height.
Oliver nodded slightly.
"Good afternoon, David. This is for our lunch." The orc peered into the pot dubiously. "It''s... chicken, I think."
"You think? Well, what did you put in it?"
"Meat? I''m not terribly sure what kind. The labels are hard to read without my glasses."
Fleer glanced into the pot.
"Right, well, good job. Good initiative."
"I''m only making lunch because Little Timmy and I played rock, paper, scissors to determine whose turn it was to cook. You know, David, you might inform him that instead of complaining about my cooking, he might volunteer to be chef more often."
"Right. I''ll take that as an action item. Oliver, I wanted to discuss the mission plan with you."
"Oh? Which plan? Are they sufficient? Is it the supply lists? I''m sorry, I haven''t had a chance to format them for--"
"No no, it''s fine. I''m sure it''s fine. I just need to make a small adjustment."
"Oh?"
"I won''t be there. I have to go out of town that week for a conference."
"Oh." Oliver stood in silence for a moment. "Is that wise? That is to say, we''re accustomed to having you on hand in the event of exigencies."
"Oh hey, don''t worry about that. I''ll be 100% available! I''ll have my headset plugged right into my ear the whole time, so you can just give me a shout if you need anything at all!"
Oliver considered this.
"To be frank, this makes me uneasy. This is a new kind of operation for us. I''ve never written up a plan like this."
"Well, and the first time you made a plan for us, you''d never done it before either! And if I recall, your first plan saved my life, am I right?"
Oliver gave an awkward grin and shrugged uncomfortably.
"Oliver, you''re our lead strategist and a super-smart guy. I trust your plan. It''s a fine plan! Just shuffle the people around a little, and it''ll work out!"
"I see. Um. I will, I will make the changes then. I''d like to run them by you, of course, to take advantage of your experience in these matters."
"Sure, sure!" Fleer said as he wandered out of the kitchen. "Just ping me when you''ve got it ready to go!"
A worried expression settled onto Oliver''s face like an old friend as he watched Fleer depart.
"Yes!" Fleer did a little fist pump.
He''d scored a cheaper room by buying a reservation off of someone who wasn''t able to attend due to sudden contract obligations.
He was lucky to find a room at all, as late as he was getting everything booked. He''d gotten the flight already. A red-eye, because that''s all that was left. Now he just needed to register for the conference itself.
With the little extra money he''d saved on the room, he could treat himself to a decent lunch somewhere. If he rustled up some business contacts he could treat them, too, while he did some wheeling and dealing.
It was going to be a great conference.
His desktop blurped to let him know that new messages had arrived.
Confirmation for the flight? Check.
Confirmation for the hotel? Check.
Another message from Oliver, requesting a review of the plan? He''d have time for that before he left.
Some spam from a credit agency he didn''t recognize. "Crediture"? A tiny pang of worry bubbled up, but that was something he''d deal with after the conference. The Riotfish had been in debt for as long as he''d owned them; their creditors were used to waiting.
That was it then. A few more forms, and the registration was complete. He was going to AME! 6 - The Trog
Fleer took a deep breath. It was his least favorite time of the month. But this was the last thing he had to wrap up before the conference.
He stood before a drab building with a concrete exterior, working himself up to go inside. A weathered sign overhead proclaimed that this was "Mercenary''s Guild Branch Office #72".
The ancient glass door squealed in protest as he pushed through. He pasted a false smile on his face. Maybe she wouldn''t be here today. Maybe she was sick. Maybe she had finally died of pure nastiness and been decently interred, probably in a piano box. Maybe she--
"Please take a number."
Nope. There she was. The Trog.
She squatted behind the chest-high desk that spanned the narrow width of the office. The Trog was a heavyset woman, with synthetic curls piled unnaturally high and dead, pallid skin. It looked as though her face had been pushed back into a layer of fat. And then that had been pushed into another layer, and so on about four times, making her head unsettlingly square and broad. She wore a thick, rude slash of lipstick, false eyelashes, and a permanent, hateful sneer.
Some people make up for an unfortunate appearance by having a pleasant demeanor. The Trog was one of the other kind.
In a fit of pique, Fleer had once referred to her as a "troglodyte." Since then, she had taught him the kind of ceaseless, needling torment a career bureaucrat could inflict. Fleer had been thinking of her as The Trog for so long that he didn''t even know her name. Perhaps she didn''t have a name. Perhaps she was just assigned a number, like the office.
"Please take a number," she repeated.
Fleer kept the grin affixed through sheer force of will. He looked around the dingy, sun-bleached office. Nobody else was there.
"Hi there! Do I really need to grab a number? Only nobody''s--"
"Please take a number," she repeated again, a measured edge of satisfied sarcasm creeping into her voice.
Twelve seconds in, and already he could feel his false grin slipping. With a mighty effort, he walked over to the number dispenser, and pulled a ticket. Number 13.
The Trog turned her attention back to her computer. Grinning madly, Fleer took a seat in the empty office and stared straight ahead.
A clock that had probably been built shortly after time itself had been invented clicked over another minute.
The Trog continued tapping away at her computer.
Another minute ticked by.
Another.
Three minutes.
Each minute pulled into eternity by the office and the annoyance.
The Trog finally spoke.
"Number eleven," she bellowed, her voice filling the office. "Number eleven," she repeated.
Fleer looked down at his slip as though it would suddenly read "11".
It did not.
More minutes ticked by, hourglass sands pinging down on Fleer''s frayed nerves. Three more minutes again, then another minute. Four more minutes, stretched like taffy over the frame of his impatience.
"Number twelve," she called. "Number twelve."
No number twelve answered. And so the waiting began again.
The silence squeezed in on Fleer, pressing into his psyche, making his ears buzz. He watched dust motes float around in the sunlight. He watched the clock tick over. He watched the carpet. He dared not appear bored or upset. He would not. His grin stayed stapled on.
"Number thirteen," she called, and almost before she was done speaking Fleer stood upright before her.
"Number thirteen," he verified, showing his slip. "I''ve come to re-up my submission for entry into the Mercenary''s Guild, please."
Her eyes shifted up to him with measured slowness, and one engineered eyebrow rose.
"Name?"
"David Fleer."
Her eyes rolled. This text was taken from Royal Road. Help the author by reading the original version there.
"Your business name, Mr. Fleer."
"Oh, uh, Riotfish, Inc."
She spent long minutes tapping in this data.
"What is the state of your business?"
"Oh, we''re still going strong," he said, clinging to his grin. "Still a going concern, you know."
"Do you have corporate sponsorship?"
"Not yet, not as such, although we''ve got some very exciting prospects. Here soon."
Her mouth shadowed, as though she had quirked just the tiniest smile, nothing he could reasonably get offended about, but which was mortally offensive nonetheless.
"Do you have any declarations, awards, outstanding achievements, or other accolades to add to your company''s records?"
"Not at the moment."
She made an arch little "mm-hm" and tapped in more data. She waited for the computer as it ground through some interminable process.
"Say, have they made any progress on getting this process automated? So I could do this without having to come in and bother you all the time? Ha ha!" The grin was haggard, haunted, and barely there.
She gave him a level stare. "Let me check that for you." Without once breaking eye contact, she said, "No, not yet. But they''re adding new features all the time, so do check back."
"I certainly will, thank you."
The computer finished whatever process it was churning through, and The Trog finally turned her attention to it.
"I''m sorry, Mr. Fleer," she said in a voice microscopically close to sarcasm, "there are no open Guild membership slots for a firm with your record at this time. Also, your membership application expires in two months. If you haven''t qualified for membership by that time, your submission will expire and you''ll have to re-apply." She gave another tiny, satisfied, almost-but-not-quite smile as she looked down at the screen. "With your record, you shouldn''t get your hopes up about an extension."
She clattered at the keyboard for a moment.
"Your submission will remain open for another month. That will be thirty-five credits, please."
With as much good grace as he could muster, he handed her a credit chit. His face was numb, unfeeling. He only kept the smile on by remembering which muscles to stretch. The Trog slotted the chit, scanned it, pulled it and handed it back.
"Have a nice day," she sneered.
"Thank you," he replied, hanging on to his temper with both hands.
He escaped, and gasped for air the moment the door squealed shut behind him,
Done, for another month.
Maybe next month would be the last time.
As part of his mission prep, Little Timmy poked his head into one of the rooms at the back of the Riotfish HQ. It had piles of old boxes full of paper, dusty and collapsing under the weight of years. He shrugged and checked another room. This one was empty except for a single candle lying in the middle of the floor. Another room had a cobwebbed machine, tall and ominous, with scrolled flywheels, exposed gearing, and an inscrutable system of levers and knobs. D''khara liked that kind of stuff, and Little Timmy made a mental note to tell him about it, which fell out of his head as soon as he closed the door.
The back of the HQ was a maze of old forgotten rooms filled with the most amazing old junk. The HQ itself dated from before the first corporate war and had passed through any number of hands before ending up as the Riotfish''s home. Each subsequent owner had simply shoveled the previous owner''s stuff into the back when setting up shop. There were no defined hallways or structure, just a jumble of half-walls, dividers, and rooms leading to rooms leading to dead-ends. There was probably enough history back there to make the careers of a whole team of archaeologists. Not that Little Timmy cared.
"Roger? You back here?"
Roger liked to vanish back here for long hours, and Little Timmy couldn''t find him up front or in the living areas. Little Timmy was trying to find Dr. Navarre''s medkit, and Roger might have seen it. He''d already tried asking Oliver, but this close to mission time, Oliver was fretting far too much to be useful for anything. Oliver was a world-class fretter.
He didn''t get an answer, but he heard a high-pitched humming coming from his left. He followed the sound through two more rooms to a bright red door. Incautiously, he threw it open and strode in.
"Roger, are you b-- OH hey, agh, uh, sorry. Ugh." Little Timmy slammed his hands over his eyes.
"I! Has a naked!"
"Oh yeah, no kidding. Didn''t need to see that. I didn''t mean to interrupt your whatever."
"I''m making, a sweater!"
"Sure. Whatever you say. Look, have you seen Dr. Navarre''s med bag? I''m kitting up for the op and I can''t find it."
"No kabooms in the pantry! It''s full of cheese!"
"Yeah, no I just... oh wait, that''s right. I left it in the kitchen. Thanks, Roger! Uh, feel free to keep doing... whatever."
Roger, balancing on one foot and holding a vest with bands of straps running across it, blew a raspberry at Little Timmy, who felt his way out of the room with his eyes shut.
D''khara''s mind buzzed with the upcoming mission. A heist for his first mission! Of all the things to start with! Coordination, planning, strategy, flexibility-- all things he''d never had to know, wrapped up in a single mission. He absently took his new uniform down from its hanger on the door.
He considered the outfit, coveralls with an ugly, jagged brown-and-gray camo pattern. Mrs. Meade had been kind enough to press it for him in the midst of her other preparations. The uniform had blocky red letters reading "RIOTFISH INC" over the left breast, and his last name "ARILBURR" over the right.
He shucked off his jeans and t-shirt, shook the uniform off its hangers, and got into it. The fit was tight in the chest and loose everywhere else, strange and stiff.
He stomped his feet down into his thick-soled hobnail boots, adding at least three inches to his height. Over his chest he strapped on a thick pauldron, covering his left shoulder, running the strap across his body and underneath his right arm. The pauldron had spikes. Not big ones, but that''s How It Was Done.
He strapped a leather sheath to his left leg, sliding in a thick-bladed Bowie knife. He put on a black steel helmet and slid on his fingerless chainmail gauntlets to complete the outfit.
He hung two extra drum mags from his waist at 4- and 8-o''clock. To complete the ensemble, he clipped two frag grenades to his belt, which sagged alarmingly despite its thickness.
He picked up his Polozola automatic shotgun. His thumb brushed across a dwarvish rune he''d engraved on the receiver: due to an accident during the engraving, it read "Goodlove" (more or less). He winced in embarrassment.
He was now fully kitted, more heavily armed and prepared than he had ever been in the mines.
"Bad luck, don''t screw me up this time," he said.
He took a deep breath, and walked out the door. 7 - The Byrd Mansion Heist, Part 1: Arrival
The Battle Wagon rocked gently from side to side as it rolled slowly to its destination, driving into the sinking sun. D''khara sat in the back, across from Little Timmy and Roger. Oliver''s massive, shadowed bulk was shoehorned into the passenger seat, and Mrs. Meade was driving.
"Do you have an ETA for us, Mrs. Meade?" Oliver asked.
"We should be there in about fifteen minutes."
Mrs. Meade sat hunched at the wheel, her frail form lost in the giant driver''s seat.
The engine grumbled as they drove 20 miles below the speed limit. Honking cars passed them on both sides. Other drivers demonstrated to the Riotfish crew a diverse and explicit array of hand gestures.
The light in the back of the Battle Wagon flickered. D''khara''s stomach roiled. His first time out with the Riotfish.
First time out, he thought. I have to focus. Have to do my best. Have to execute swiftly, precisely, effectively, and why in the name of all that''s holy does Roger have that many grenades?
Roger was liberally pimpled with ordnance. Dozens of grenades hung from his vest. His baseball grenades were an old design, but cheap and effective. D''khara couldn''t tell for certain under the shifting mass of explosives, but he was pretty sure they were all hanging from their pins.
Roger''s face was a study in quiet anticipation. Lost in thought, occasionally licking an eyeball... it was as close to peaceful as D''khara could imagine Roger being.
Little Timmy sat next to Roger in the back of the Battle Wagon. His mouth writhed in an unvoiced argument. A little grin popped up on his face from time to time, so sweet and unexpected that it nearly balanced the manic anticipation in the rest of his expression.
He was fiddling with his 9mm Kealan submachine guns, one in each hand. They were his prize possessions: short and black, with angled faces, short knurled charging handles, and long receivers hanging back over the grips. He had mounted Picatinny rails along the tops of the blocky SMGs, and had swapped out the stock magazines for long, straight 50-round stick mags.
As a final insult to these otherwise fine pieces of equipment, he had mounted a free-spinning muzzle brake to each barrel, hand-filing them so that each shot spun the brake, causing each subsequent shot to go in a slightly different direction. He claimed it let him create a "cone of fire".
D''khara had seen him use his Kealans at the range, and all it actually created was a mess. The safest place to be when Little Timmy was firing was directly behind the target he was aiming at. You''d want to stay there for a while, too, since Little Timmy apparently didn''t realize that he could stop firing before both guns were completely empty.
Theoretically there were worse marksmen, but D''khara had never personally met one.
Little Timmy was constantly thumbing the safeties of his Kealans on and off, spinning them around by the trigger guards, repeatedly muzzle-sweeping everyone in the wagon.
"Could you stop that?" growled D''khara.
Little Timmy ignored this, except to ostentatiously spin his Kealans around some more.
"Little Timmy, are you behaving back there?" Mrs. Meade called.
He rolled his eyes and slung his Kealans. Both of his submachine guns were fitted with a strap he pulled over his shoulder, and a clip that hooked to his belt, creating a crude sort of gun-suspenders. This tale has been unlawfully lifted without the author''s consent. Report any appearances on Amazon.
He stayed leaned forward on his bench, eyes still alight with anticipation.
The Battle Wagon lumbered by the front of the Byrd mansion as the sun began to set. The gate was wrought iron, lofty and light and airy-looking, but deceptively strong.
The guards out in front of the gate glared suspiciously, but glaring suspiciously was their job. Especially when confronted with such a d¨¦class¨¦ vehicle in their neighborhood, a vehicle so old it was still rolling around on wheels instead of floating by on modern gravwells.
The Byrd mansion itself sat at the top of a gentle hill, with a long curved drive leading to a roundabout circling a classical fountain in front of a broad, low flight of stairs leading to the main entryway. Cultivated topiary dotted the meticulously manicured lawn. More guards patrolled the lawn, visibly armed with high-end submachine guns. The place oozed class and old money.
The mansion was three stories tall, clean and well-maintained, with eggshell plaster and a distinct Art Nouveau feel, all curls and swoops and elegant curves. Proud, smooth marble columns flanked the recessed entryway, which was delicately carved in whimsical overlapping swirls, with oddly-shaped amber windows casting a warm glow from within.
All in all, it was a bucolic scene of the best kind of peace money could buy.
The Battle Wagon passed the property, drove down about a quarter mile, and turned around. It rumbled back toward the Byrd mansion.
As the Battle Wagon neared the front gate, it turned toward the side of the road and stopped, its rear doors facing the gate.
"Okay everyone," Oliver said, turning around as best he could in his seat to address the three in the back. "Recall that your primary goal is to maximally attract attention. Mrs. Meade and I will take you three as close to the entrance of the mansion as we possibly can. Mrs. Meade, would you be able to get us right up to the front door?"
"Hmm? What''s that?"
"The front door of the mansion? Can you get us up there?"
"Oh, certainly Mr. Oliver."
"Thank you, Mrs. Meade. Well, then. Is everybody prepared for the operation to commence?"
D''khara nodded firmly, Little Timmy shrugged, and Roger popped his finger out of his nose. It was as much of an agreement as Oliver was likely to get.
"Okay. Mrs. Meade, let''s line up the Battle Wagon."
The Battle Wagon jockeyed back and forth a couple times as Mrs. Meade lined up the vehicle. One of the gate guards started walking toward them to check on their suspicious behavior. The other guard pressed his finger to the device in his ear and muttered, presumably warning the guards inside that There Might Be A Problem.
Oliver hunted for the right control on the Battle Wagon''s console. It was crowded with hand-built buttons, switches and dials that had accrued over the years as one and another feature had been added to the aging vehicle. Finally finding the right button, he pressed it.
Two grapnels fired from the hastily-welded tubes on the back of the Battle Wagon. They trailed steel cables, and crunched firmly into the pillars surrounding the gate, embedding themselves in the decorative stone. The pair of speed winches gave off a high-pitched dual whine as they snapped the cables taut. The high-torque winch took over, steadily pulling at the pillars.
The guard who''d come to check on them started yelling, and reached for the driver''s side door handle. Oliver lunged across Mrs. Meade to lock the door. Mrs. Meade sat quietly smiling, oblivious.
Oliver experienced a strange optical sensation, as it appeared that the guard was drifting toward the front of the Battle Wagon. It took him a second to realize that the Battle Wagon was actually moving slowly backward, dragged by the winch.
"Mrs. Meade? Mrs. Meade! The brakes! You must apply the brakes!"
"Hmm? Oh, yes."
She firmly pressed the brake pedal, but not before the winch had wound the Battle Wagon back up to the gate, lifting the rear tires off the ground. Everyone inside was pulled toward the front of the vehicle by the shift in gravity.
The Battle Wagon was now pulled tight to the gate, with only the front tires touching the ground. Too late, Oliver punched the e-stop for the winch.
"Mrs. Meade, which button de-tensions the winch? We need to release!"
She smiled dimly at him and gazed down at the crowded console.
"Oh, it''s one of the blue ones, I think. Let me see..."
More guards were making their way to the Battle Wagon. The first gate guard started banging on the window.
"Just go!" Little Timmy yelled. "I want to get this thing started!"
"Oh, well, that makes sense," Mrs. Meade said, and applied the accelerator. The rear wheels spun in the empty air.
The gate guard was yelling, and had his handgun pointed at Mrs. Meade''s window.
"Just a moment. I need to engage the four-wheel drive." She turned one of the knobs on the console. Heavy clanks sounded from underneath. "It will be just a moment dear," she said.
Oliver was trying to signal the guard not to shoot. The guard, unswayed, backed up two steps and fired directly at Mrs. Meade. 8 - The Byrd Mansion Heist, Part 2: Gently Knocking on the Front Door
The bullet skipped off of the heavy, armor-impregnated glass. Mrs. Meade waved at the guard. He fired twice more, to no effect. A final series of clanks sounded under the Battle Wagon.
"There it goes," she said. "See? It took no time at all. Nothing for you to worry about, Mr. Oliver."
"Gooooooooooo," Little Timmy whined.
Mrs. Meade shifted back into reverse and applied the accelerator again. This time the front wheels gripped and pushed the Battle Wagon backward. The gate bent and buckled. With a creak and a rumble of disintegrating stonework, the pillars gave way and the Battle Wagon crashed to the ground.
More guards had arrived, and taking their cue from the first, opened fire on the Battle Wagon.
"We have to get out of here!" D''khara cried.
Oliver, flustered and panicking, yelled the one thing that Fleer had told him never to say except in an emergency.
"Mrs. Meade! It''s time to go fast!"
She smiled her gentle little smile.
The Battle Wagon''s engine roared, and it lurched backward. The cables clung to the stonework, yanking the pillars apart as the Battle Wagon tore away from the gate. One cable trailed the van, dragging a lump of stonework the size of a man''s head. The other was pulling half the gate along. The gate skipped and jerked crazily along the ground as the Battle Wagon picked up speed.
Careening wildly, the Battle Wagon shredded its way across the property in reverse. It chewed up the carefully maintained lawn. It exploded whimsical topiary animals. It flattened small, decorative trees and bounced heavily off larger ones.
D''khara clung to the hard wooden bench, trying to keep his seat and stuttering out dwarvish, either curses or a prayer, it was hard to say which. Little Timmy was standing, both hands wrapped firmly in the hand straps hanging from the ceiling, being whipped mercilessly back and forth by the Battle Wagon''s travel and hooting with glee. Roger sat quietly, rolling smoothly with the movements of the vehicle.
Oliver just had his eyes covered.
As the Battle Wagon rollicked across the grounds, guards leapt out of the way, dodging the maniacal vehicle and the deadly masses it trailed, the concrete whistling by with deadly speed and the gate bouncing and cartwheeling unpredictably. Turning, the guards fired fruitlessly, the Battle Wagon''s thick armor plating shrugging off their light rounds.
The Battle Wagon flew backward, gaining speed, and plowed through the fountain in a phenomenal cloud of mist and concrete dust. The mangled plumbing of the fountain began spraying madly in all directions. Continuing through, the Battle Wagon mounted the front stairs of the mansion, its solid rubber tires staining the marble and continuing to gain speed as it rocketed toward the doors.
With a bang and a crunch the Battle Wagon blasted butt-first through the front entryway in an explosion of glass and exotic wood, burying itself in the mansion nearly to the driver''s door. The wide tires chewed at the expensive oriental carpet in the foyer as the Battle Wagon shrieked and howled.
The engine finally died, and the Battle Wagon sat cooling and ticking.
An eerie calm settled over the scene. Guards from outside the mansion slowly converged on the Battle Wagon. Inside, security forces crept closer in wonder at the violation of the vehicle inside the grand foyer.
Three guards came toward the rear of the wagon. The Battle Wagon hulked there, inert.
Roger shattered the quiet by kicking open the rear doors of the Battle Wagon with a sprung grenade in either hand. He screamed "It''s ketchuppin'' time!" and began flinging grenades willy-nilly into the room. They bounced heavily and rolled around the expensive marble floor as the panicked guards scrambled for the exits. One grenade lodged, all unlikely, in the chandelier. Enjoying the story? Show your support by reading it on the official site.
D''khara grabbed the back of Roger''s flak jacket and yanked him back into the Battle Wagon as grenades started going off. The Battle Wagon could soak up the grenade shrapnel, but Roger... well, Roger could technically soak up the shrapnel too, but he probably wouldn''t hold up so well.
Roger, all a-glee, grabbed his Borka automatic rifle and hopped back out of the Battle Wagon as the explosions subsided. Glancing briefly around, he picked the stairs as a likely direction, and skittered up them. He turned left at the top and darted off to do his job.
Roger''s job was to create a mess and a distraction. And he was very, very good at his job.
D''khara remembered Oliver''s briefing. "Roger should go first," he''d said. "You''ll want to give him some room."
D''khara glanced at the floor of the wagon. Little Timmy was upside down, having been rattled loose of the hand straps during the crash. Slowly he rolled upright and picked up his Kealan SMGs, wincing at new bruises inflicted by the sides and floor of the Battle Wagon. Shaking himself, he strolled up next to D''khara and stared out of the Battle Wagon.
His pinprick pupils swam in bloodshot scleras, and a crazed, toothy smile gripped his face. With a Kealan in each hand, he gazed out at the remains of the grand foyer, now pocked with grenade craters and scattered with bodies and viscera.
"You want to do this together?" D''khara asked, not wanting the company so much as he wanted to not run alone.
Little Timmy hopped down from the wagon into the foyer without looking at D''khara.
"You do your thing, stumpy, and I''ll do mine." So saying, he jogged toward the hall.
D''khara stared hard at Little Timmy''s back, fingering the trigger of his automatic shotgun.
"Now let''s mash some faces!" Little Timmy cried. As he continued down the hall, he started indiscriminately spraying 9mm bullets at guards, light fixtures, furniture, and anything that looked like it might take a bullet in a fun and exciting way.
D''khara climbed carefully down out of the back of the Battle Wagon. A pair of grand, curving staircases led up. Beyond them was an open hall. Immediately to the left of the Battle Wagon, an ornate arch opened to a well-stocked library, and a well-appointed dining room lay to the right. Also to the right was the hallway Little Timmy had trotted down.
D''khara stared around, indecisive.
"If I was a file room, where would I be?" he said aloud. The echoing of his voice in the foyer made him self-conscious, so he quickly picked a direction, moved to the nearest staircase, and started struggling up the stairs. He was not built for staircases, and his thick hobnail boots left nasty rows of scratches in the marble surface as, chest heaving, he flung one foot up after another.
At the top of the stairs, even over his gasping, he could hear Roger cackling and gibbering in the distance to his left.
He chose to go right.
"Help find the file room," he huffed. "Make noise. Draw attention." Nodding at his mental checklist, he turned right, opening fire. With luck, they''d find the file room quickly, and be out of here before the security forces had any idea what was going on.
In the foyer, the Battle Wagon sat for a few more minutes as Roger, D''khara and Little Timmy focused all the attention on themselves. No more curious guards came to look at the monstrosity lodged in the house. They''d all been drawn deeper inside to deal with the noisier parts of the Riotfish crew.
The engine grumbled back to life.
Slowly, the Battle Wagon rocked itself back and forth, wheels slipping and squeaking on the smooth floor where the carpet had shredded away. With each little bit of traction, it loosened itself more and more from the crunched up bits of wall that held it in place. Soon, and with a horrible squeal of raw wood on metal, the Battle Wagon lurched free of the mansion and rolled quietly off into the twilight, unnoticed.
Oliver cut a unique figure as he cut through the night air. He was hanging out of the passenger door of the Battle Wagon as it rumbled slowly across the lawn.
He and Mrs. Meade had looped around toward the west side of the mansion and were looking for an infiltration point while the Battle Wagon''s broad, knobbly tires did unspeakable things to the landscaping. There were no guards in sight; they''d all been drawn indoors, as hoped, so Oliver and Mrs. Meade could scout in peace.
Near the rear of the mansion, Oliver spotted a small door with three narrow concrete stairs leading up to it. He figured that was as quiet an entry as he was likely to find. He pointed it out to Mrs. Meade and hopped down, jogging along on the grass to slow down as the Battle Wagon lumbered on.
"Be watchful of the enemy, Mrs. Meade!" he called out in that hoarse voice people use when they''re trying to make their voice carry, but don''t want to be overheard.
Oliver watched worriedly for a moment as Mrs. Meade turned the Battle Wagon to make her slow way to the exfiltration point. He hunched over and started scooting toward the mansion, swiveling his head around nervously, as unobtrusive as a cactus in a nudist colony. Fortunately, all the attention was indoors, being hogged by Roger, D''khara, and Little Timmy. There wasn''t anyone around to see Oliver.
With any luck, that state would hold, and he could search for the file room in peace.
He neared the door. Gently trying the doorknob with two fingers, he found it locked. Glancing around to make sure no one would hear, he placed his palm flat against the door near the jamb and simply pushed.
Locked doors are an optional obstacle for an orc. 9 - The Byrd Mansion Heist, Part 3: Mistakes Were Made
Inside the mansion, a roomful of serious men with serious guns stood listening to another serious man. He stood in front of a whiteboard covered in serious diagrams talking about serious business.
The men were cleanly outfitted in maroon uniforms, each with a silver star on the right breast pocket over the legend "Star Security", professionally squared away, each with a shiny clean submachine gun strapped to their chest, angled up under the logo.
"There are at least three of them," Mr. Serious Business said, gesturing at the map on the whiteboard. "Two on the second floor, and one at large. These guys are extremely dangerous. They don''t seem to be after anything specific, but we''ve got the file room locked down just in case. Torres and Borvin, I want you two to cover what''s left of the front entrance, keep any more from slipping in. Lambe, take your squad up to floor three and cover the stairwells, keep them from getting any higher. Wharshafsky, I need you to--"
He cut off as the doorknob rattled.
"Who is that? Did Conway forget his key again? Somebody go let him--"
The door crunched open, the ragged frame tearing apart, the latching mechanism bulging, then pushing through the wood of the door, the lock pinging off into a far corner somewhere. A large rock-brown head poked in.
Everyone stared at each other in surprise.
"Oh! Um, my apologies!" Oliver said. "Wrong room. I''ll just be going now."
With a shout and a cry, the mass of men snatched up their arms and opened fire on Oliver, who made a run for it.
The venue hallway was broad, with spacious conference rooms on either side. Small knots of people milled aimlessly on the patterned carpet, waiting for the next talk, or chatting, or taking advantage of the snacks on the sideboard.
Fleer stared up at the chandelier, idly admiring the exquisite crystalwork. He was two days into the conference, and was starting to think that perhaps it hadn''t been as hot of an idea as it had seemed back at Riotfish HQ.
Sure, the talks were great, the food was unparalleled, and the accommodations sumptuous, but he had a nagging feeling that these really weren''t his kind of people. Not any more. He hadn''t really been able to connect, hadn''t gotten any real networking accomplished.
He was starting to wonder if he had, in fact, made a mistake.
He''d taken an awful risk coming here. A fun one, to be sure, but a risk nonetheless. The finances were sketchy enough, and he''d stretched them way out of shape with this conference, but the Datatura money would fix all that.
He felt distinctly uncomfortable thinking about the rest of the Riotfish managing the Datatura job without him, so he just tried not to think about it.
But. But. If he could score a big hit here, he could turn it all around. Riotfish didn''t have to be small forever. Once the Datatura contract was wrapped up, he could hit them up for those recurring contracts, maybe even, dare he hoped, retainer fees. That would give Riotfish, Inc. the financial stability and breathing room to take on the bigger, more lucrative jobs. Jobs that just didn''t show up on the Mercenary''s Guild''s boards. Jobs that you had to know somebody to even get a shot at.
And this conference was where he could make the connections to know somebody again.
As if on cue, a familiar face swam up from the loose crowd. Fleer smiled genuinely, and strode over with purpose. This tale has been unlawfully lifted from Royal Road. If you spot it on Amazon, please report it.
"Lewis! Lewis Schultz?" he called, holding out a hand of greeting.
A long, baggy face glanced up from his companions, and singled out Fleer, inbound full steam with outstretched hand.
"Hello?" His sleepy eyes widened as Fleer grasped and pumped his hand in a handshake that was slightly too enthusiastic.
"Lewis! It''s a wonderful surprise to see you here! Why, I haven''t talked to you since AtaVision. Are you still there? What''s been going on your way?"
A bit shocked, Lewis replied.
"AtaVision? No, I''m with Vigliosa, now. You''re uh," he paused, and his droopy eyes dropped as he disentangled his hand. "Fleer, right?"
Fleer felt a brief swell of joy at the recognition.
"You remember me. That''s right! Hey, it is just great to see you."
"Yeah, yeah. Uh, you too."
Fleer''s datapad burbled, indicating that he had an incoming call. Grinning, he swiped it away. It was probably just Oliver calling to let him know that they''d wrapped up the Datatura job, and Fleer was on a roll here.
"So, out of AtaVision, huh? Did you ride out the fallout after I left alright? Hope I didn''t leave too many people in the lurch there."
"No no, it''s fine."
"That''s good to hear. Well look, I wanted to let you know that I''m running an outfit of mercenaries now. We should catch up over lunch sometime. Talk about some new business? You guys need any work where you''re at now?"
"Oh, sure, sounds good. We should do that."
"Great! Here''s my card. Ping me tomorrow; we''ll get together!"
"Sure, sure. I''d better, uh, freshen up before the next talk. See you soon."
"Sure thing! Looking forward to it!"
Lewis Schultz and his two companions wandered off while Fleer exulted.
Right! The personal connection! That''s how business got done! That''s how sales were made!
Humming, he walked into the conference hall early to grab a good seat.
The hall was vast, with modular chairs set out, row upon row upon row, leading up to a stage with a massive screen. This was going to be one of the popular talks, "Litigation, Mitigation, and Protection Through Policy", all about limiting the legal liability of mercenary work.
On the far side of the hall, about a third of the way back from the stage, was a support pillar. It was easily three feet across. Fleer chose one of the seats in front of it-- he liked having his back to a wall, rather than open to a huge crowd of people.
Old habits died hard.
Sitting, he opened his program, and skimmed through it as the hall began to fill.
It took only a couple minutes for the hall to transform from a dull silence to the rustling buzz of a hundred quiet conversations as people filed in. Fleer''s ear was suddenly tugged by a familiar voice.
He smiled. Lewis! Even if his company-- Vertigo, was it?-- didn''t have any work, he could put him in touch with people, get him back into the flow of the corporate world and in the path of some juicy contracts.
Lewis and his companions sat near Fleer to his rear. Because of the pillar, they couldn''t see him, but he was able to listen in on their conversation.
"Say, Lewis," one of them asked, "who was that guy that buttonholed you earlier?"
Fleer smiled.
"Him? Um, I don''t really know."
"Oh. Sounded like he knew you, though. And you remembered his name."
Lewis barked a short laugh.
"I just read his name badge. Sales tip, always use their name. People love hearing their name."
Fleer, his countenance falling, looked down at the name badge hanging from the lanyard around his neck.
"So did you know him?"
"Could be. AtaVision, though, that would have been years ago. I was doing PR work for them, but I got out, went independent. Money''s a lot better that way."
"Well you must have made a solid impression."
"No, he''s just desperate. Obviously a small-time try-hard. Probably some hard-luck outfit. I mean, trying to reel me into a lunch pitch? These two-bit operators, you can smell the need coming off of them. They''re always trying to suck up to you. My advice, just dodge around them as best you can, or they''ll constantly be buddy-buddy, trying to scrape some kind of deal together."
"Heh, maybe you could sell him some PR work. Help him not look like such a bumbling goof."
"There''s no point. Guy like that''ll implode his career no matter how much help he gets."
Fleer listened numbly, stung and crestfallen. What Lewis said was accurate-- to a point-- but it sounded so awful, the way he put it.
Fleer''s datapad burbled, startling him out of his eavesdropping. He pulled the datapad out to see that Oliver was calling him again. Probably to tell him that the operation was done. Not that it mattered. Small now, small forever. That was Riotfish, Inc.
Fleer slunk out of his seat to answer the call, sneaking out of the hall on a line where Lewis and his friends couldn''t see. 10 - The Byrd Mansion Heist, Part 4: Finding Files
D''khara crept down the dark hallway, shotgun stock tight against his shoulder, nervously swinging the barrel back and forth; left-to-right, spinning around to check behind him, spinning back, peering at dark corners, looking for movement, anything to pull a trigger at.
He was tracking back westward, following the occasional distant whump that signaled another one of Roger''s grenades going off. Roger, at least, was clearly still having a good time.
The upstairs hall was tall and broad and moodily lit, with small spotlights picking out the art and statuary stationed in regular niches. White paneled wainscoting came up to the middle of D''khara''s back as he slid along the walls, and deep maroon wallpaper climbed the rest of the way to the ceiling.
Roger''s shenanigans fell silent, and an unnatural, fuzzy stillness fell over the scene. D''khara grew more tense as he stalked the dim hallways. Had Roger run out of grenades? Or was it something more sinister? And where was everybody? They should have guards crawling all over them by now.
If all were going well, Oliver should be inside the mansion. Fleer hadn''t been able to dig up the layout of the mansion, so Oliver would be hunting for the file room with the rest of them, while they kept the heat off of him.
D''khara realized he wasn''t being enough of a distraction. It was against his nature to draw fire to himself. He didn''t have Little Timmy''s ability to make noise without purpose, nor Roger''s natural chaos. He could practice clearing drills, though.
Experimentally, he tried one of the doors on the north wall. The doorknob rattled loudly in the stillness, but it was locked. Oliver had told them to expect that. The little information they''d been able to glean about the mansion suggested that there was a central security station somewhere. They''d probably remotely locked everything down once the shooting started.
Glancing up and down the hall, D''khara took a deep breath.
"Here goes nothing, maybe," he said.
He fired one round at the doorknob, vaporizing it, then launched himself at the door, crashing into it with the heavy pauldron on his left shoulder.
Once through, he frantically waved the barrel of his automatic shotgun around, screaming to terrorize anybody who might be there while trying to see through the gunsmoke. All he found was a spacious, well-lit bathroom with pale, cream-colored walls and hunter green accents. It was a calm room, with prints of bamboo stalks and chrysanthemums hanging on the walls and the gentle tinkling sound coming from a small fountain in one corner.
No bad guys here.
He looked longingly at the toilet, but now was definitely not the time. Especially since the door wouldn''t lock any more.
A quick peek back out into the hall. Nobody.
He moved out and across the hall. Same routine, blast, smash, wave his gun around in an empty room, except this time it was a roomy closet.
Across the hall and down a bit, he did the same thing for the next room (a bedroom) and the next (another library) and the next (an ornate office). He reloaded his shotgun and continued.
Each door he went through took him closer to the stairs at the end of the hall. The stairs loomed in his imagination-- he did not relish the thought of climbing another flight.
In surprisingly short order, his shoot-bash-sweep routine became automatic, giving him room to think. He considered whether to keep shooting the doorknobs out. On the one hand, it was a waste of ammo, as these interior doors weren''t reinforced. He could just bash through them. On the other hand, making noise was part of his job, so...
It was while he was considering his course of action that he smashed into another room, straight into two serious men with guns, preparing an ambush, with silver stars shining on their maroon uniforms.
They fumbled their submachine guns up, blazing brrrrrrrrt as D''khara squawked and fell backward, squeezing his trigger on the way down, his automatic shotgun spitting rounds into the ceiling, butbutbutbutbutbut. He rolled inelegantly across the floor and scrambled back out into the hallway as the two guards took cover inside the room.
Leaning against the wall next to the shredded door, gasping for breath with his heart pounding, D''khara tried to recall what he''d seen of the room, to guess where they''d take cover. All he could recall was a vague sense of brown walls.
Just his luck to run into what were probably the only two guards left in the house.
Gritting his teeth, he stood, slung his shotgun, pulled one of the grenades loose from his leather belt, and flung it into the room. He snatched his arm back, since SMGs started buzzing the moment his hand appeared.
There was a scuffle from within, and the muffled whump of an explosion. Everything fell silent. Reading on this site? This novel is published elsewhere. Support the author by seeking out the original.
D''khara unslung his shotgun and waited a small eternity, straining his ears for any sound. He edged toward the ruined door frame, preparing to ease one eye into the room.
"I need an assist!" screamed his radio.
He jerked back in surprise, falling again, and fumbled for his radio with his left hand.
"Assist!" he called back, and realized he''d missed keying the mike, and was yelling into the back of the thing. He pressed the button and hollered "Assist what?" at his radio.
"I''m pinned down by a bunch of these saucetags!" screamed Little Timmy in scratchy radio static.
"Where are you?" D''khara asked, backing away from the door.
"I''m in some closet, first floor," Little Timmy replied, the sound of gunfire ringing through in the background. "I moved back west and I came through some kind of utility room, full of pipes and stuff. Some of these ragnuts saw me and started shooting, so I ran in here, and it''s a dead end."
D''khara thought quickly, his barrel trained on the door.
"Are they in there with you?" he asked.
"No, there''s just this one little door they can''t get through. I''ve got it covered but I can''t get out and I''m low on ammo!"
If he were closer, D''khara could break into the utility room, surprise the guards from behind. Assuming they weren''t defending the rear.
These guys seemed smarter than that.
D''khara couldn''t go down the stairs now in any case, not with a possible pair of hostiles behind him.
A small plan began to form. He keyed the mike again.
"How far down the west hall are you?" asked.
"How should I know?" the frantic voice came back. "I didn''t bring a measuring laser! Maybe a hundred feet?"
D''khara considered things for a moment. He''d grown up in a mine, and while there was not much to learn there, one definitely did pick up on three-dimensional spatial thinking.
He backed down the hall to the bathroom, keeping his gun trained on the brown room''s door, in case one of the baddies in there decided to come out. Past all the doors he''d bashed in, all the way back to the bathroom. He backed carefully into the bathroom, through the ruins of the door, all the way back to the shower.
He considered the toilet for a moment. Classier than your standard porcelain throne, it was low and sleek, cream-colored, with a seashell motif and gold accents. Clearly not a working man''s toilet. The toilet he grew up with, you could flush a burlap sack full of hockey pucks if you needed to, but this thing didn''t look nearly so robust.
D''khara stared at the base of the toilet, briefly trying to work out the size of the integral trap in the toilet. He suddenly gave up thinking, shrugged, and blasted it to shards with a rattle of autofire from his shotgun.
"D''khara?" wheedled Little Timmy over the radio, with uncharacteristic humility. "Can you help me?"
"One sec," D''khara said, shifting his shotgun to his left hand. He pulled the last grenade off his belt with his right. He eyed the jagged porcelain exposing the Mess Formerly Known As Toilet''s outflow pipe, weighing the waffle-printed device in his hand. He released the spoon, which pinged off into the hallway. He carefully counted to four, then dropped the grenade into the blackness of the outflow pipe.
If he was upstairs, and Little Timmy was downstairs, the pipe should lead...
A four-inch column of water fired up out of the remains of the toilet hard enough to blast the finish off the ceiling and leave a dent in the underlying material. The sound of gunfire drifted up through the floor.
"Brilliant!" the radio crackled. "It hit ''em like a, like a sewage truck! Yeah!" Little Timmy started yelling at the guards he was firing at. "Yeah! How''s that for lunch! And the main course! And an appetizer!" The gunfire from below slowed. "I owe you one, short stuff!" Little Timmy crowed.
"No worries," D''khara keyed back.
He crept back out into the hallway, which was still quiet. He eased his way down to the brown room. He flapped his arm awkwardly in front of the door for a second, then yanked it back.
No gunfire.
He peeked around the ruined door frame into the room. The grenade had done its work. One of the guards was clearly no longer a threat. Threats generally came in fewer than two pieces.
Peeking further, he saw the tumbled remains of some sort of office, or reception area. An overturned desk here, a spill of files there, chairs scattered around.
D''khara stepped carefully into the room, leading with the barrel of his shotgun. He had a nasty start as a face loomed out of the corner of his eye, and snapped the barrel of his gun around, but it was just a life-sized portrait of Sir Oscar Byrd.
Breathing heavily, but trying to keep quiet, he scanned the room. Dark wood paneling covered the walls, and potted plants relieved the color scheme a little. Several marble busts stared passively at him. The desk was the only place that anyone could really be hiding.
He approached the overturned desk as quietly as he could.
As his head cleared the edge of the desk, he saw a flash and his ears rang. He reflexively hosed the area down with his shotgun.
After a few crowded seconds, the other guard lay messily disposed of. Ears still ringing, D''khara pulled off his helmet and stared dumbly at the two dents in it. His heart wouldn''t slow down as he stared at those little bullet-shaped divots.
D''khara stood panting, verging on hyperventilating, the bullet-peppered walls and ceiling closing in around him.
"Hand cheeses!"
D''khara dropped his helmet and swung around at the sudden sound behind him, spraying autofire, butbutbutbutbutbut. His shotgun carved great swaths in the walls as he spun, recognized Roger, and yanked his barrel upward, his last round knocking out a clean hole through the wall not six inches over Roger''s head.
"Roger! For crying out loud! I could have shot you!"
"Like water babies!"
Still shaking, D''khara turned away from Roger and examined the scene.
The room was certainly less classy now. The tasteful plants were now potted in more ways than one, the statuary was pocked with bullet holes, and several pieces of abstract art were now considerably more abstract. The shotgun had left a distinctive pattern along the walls, and even in the ceiling in a few cases. The sharp smell of burnt cordite tainted the hazy swirls of gunsmoke filling the room. The painting of Sir Oscar Byrd, miraculously undamaged, stared disapprovingly at the mess.
The two guards were clearly done with their time in the mortal plane. The door they had been guarding was a looming, ominous thing. D''khara crept closer.
There was a small brass plate screwed to the door, which read, "Files." 11 - The Byrd Mansion Heist, Part 5: Dkhara Takes Flight
D''khara keyed his radio.
"Oliver? I think I''ve found the file room. I don''t know how far away you are, I''m on the second floor, west end of the house. Over."
A few long seconds passed before Oliver keyed back in, out of breath.
"D''khara you, go ahead, take it." huffed Oliver. "I''m, tied up, right now, over."
D''khara gazed quizzically at his radio for a moment, then frowned. He didn''t know exactly what they were looking for, some kind of land acquisition document. He hadn''t understood that part of the briefing very well. He''d just nodded along since Oliver was handling it anyway.
Except now he wasn''t.
D''khara''s understanding of the relationship between company stock and land was fuzzy. Before the... unpleasantness in the mines, he had been a third generation underearther-- dwarves who dug deep, refused to surface, and eschewed any news or information from the upside. Three generations of dwarves covers a lot of time; D''khara himself was 134 years old, and still considered a foolish young upstart.
Of course, that also might have had something to do with his accident. "Dakarva D''khara" they''d called him. Eventually they just called him "Dakarva". Dwarvish for "bad luck".
Pushing away ugly memories, he focused.
So in those three generations, the upside had remade itself. Governments were effectively gone, and the whole world was run by corporations, which filled in the traditional roles of government: common defense, proper justice, pointless bureaucracy, and so forth.
It had taken a couple global wars to sort out the particulars-- not terrible ones, by historical standards, but all-encompassing. Ultimately, as he understood it, a corporation''s power was tied to their land. The amount of land a corporation held limited how many stocks they could issue, which limited how much money they could raise, and money is the universal language.
So more land meant more money. Corporations didn''t actually have to use the land to issue stock, they just had to keep control of it, or at least be seen to control it, enough to satisfy the stockholders. That meant that a well-run media campaign could be as devastating as a bombing strike for impacting a competitor''s stock issuance.
Not that a bombing strike was ever out of the question.
One side effect of the corporate territory structure was the tendency toward urban islands: hyperdense cities surrounded by massive zones of undeveloped land, sometimes used for farming, sometimes for the occasional lab or autofactory that was too dangerous to operate near population centers.
None of it made sense to D''khara. In a mine, you used every inch of space you had, because making more space was so incredibly labor-intensive. Here topside, they had land literally just laying around. Unfortunately, this meant that a lot of land was left completely unused. Vast swathes of land were given over to nature, and filled with pointless, horrible things like plants and bugs and animals and who knew what all.
It was a dangerous place, and the only people who lived out there were outcasts, bandits and crazies.
Well, and the dipsos, D''khara realized. And the orcs, probably. Not going to find many of them in a city. And, technically speaking, probably dwarves too, since their property was mostly underground, and fell under a set of treaties that recognized their sovereignty despite them never having filed proper articles of incorporation.
Anyway, the whole point of this exercise was that Datatura wanted to bring some disputed land into arbitration, but there were some issues with the land records. So they wanted to look at the original land records, or destroy them, or just have them, who knew? The records were held by the estate of one Sir Oscar Robert Byrd (deceased), which refused to turn them over.
And now D''khara had to try to find them.
He moved to the dark wooden door and wiggled the doorknob, on the off chance it was unlocked. It wasn''t. He loaded a new drum mag into his weapon.
Locked doors are an optional obstacle for a dwarf with an automatic shotgun.
One brief volley, and the door swung open in a cloud of gunsmoke and debris. D''khara turned back to Roger.
"Roger, cover the door while I look for files."
Roger looked up from licking the area between his toes, picked up his rifle, and nodded.
D''khara crept in carefully, looking for any more guards. The room was musty and dim, with worn wooden floorboards and rows of bookshelves lined up throughout. Each shelf had a row of banker''s boxes, each meticulously labeled. The narrative has been taken without permission. Report any sightings.
He moved swiftly to the back of the room near the windows, moving along each row, looking for guards with the barrel of his shotgun.
Once he''d swept the room and confirmed that he had the place to himself for the time being, he examined the shelves, trying to find the order behind the filing system.
There didn''t appear to be any, but at least each box had a nice clear handwritten label. He pulled down a box labeled "Bond". It had dental records for a variety of apparently unrelated people. Another box labeled "Berm" yielded an old contract and receipts for ten thousand pairs of women''s sunglasses.
D''khara glared around the room. What kind of file system was this?
D''khara spotted a likely-looking box on a high shelf with the label "Prop". Maybe short for "Property"? It was worth a look, but it was at least three feet out of his reach. He glanced over to make sure that Roger wasn''t watching. Roger was carefully examining one armpit, so D''khara hopped to try and grab it.
He couldn''t hop quite high enough.
He briefly considered asking Roger to get it for him, but dismissed the idea-- he couldn''t prove himself if he just leaned on everybody else to do his job. With grim determination, he began climbing the shelving unit like a ladder.
Huffing and sweating, he was nearly to the top when the unsecured shelf wobbled, and the gravity of the situation struck him. His stomach dropped as the shelf slowly tilted backward, lifting up onto two legs. He froze, trying by force of will to maintain the thing''s wisp-thin stability. It spent a long moment hovering between settling back down and falling. Finally reaching a decision, the whole structure slowly toppled over. D''khara hit the ground with a thick crunch. The shelving unit landed on top of him. Boxes and dust flew from the crash, scattering files and tumbling trash in every direction.
He lay half-stunned for a moment, trying to invent new curses for his bad luck.
After recovering, he sat up, grabbed the box he''d been after, and pulled the top off. Inside was a cheap teddy bear. He snorted and tossed the thing aside.
It was going to take some time to find the records he was looking for.
D''khara''s radio squawked to life, and Oliver''s breathless voice came through.
"D''khara, any luck with those files?"
Suddenly sweating, D''khara keyed back.
"Um. There''s a lot here. It could take a while."
"Anything you can do to speed it up--" a rattle of gunfire over the radio, and the rest of Oliver''s sentence came out in jagged rushes as he ran, "--would be great, thanks."
Frantically, D''khara started grabbing boxes. He tore each lid off, checked the contents, and threw the box and its disappointing contents in an untidy pile in the middle of the room.
Even through the rush and bustle of rapidly checking each box, one thing was becoming clear: old man Byrd had lost his mind. There was no connection D''khara could see between the labels and the box contents.
"In this day and age," D''khara muttered, yanking down another likely box from the "O"s, "who keeps data on paper?"
"Meddling kids!" piped Roger from the doorway.
"Right. Old people and dwarves, that''s who." D''khara continued ranting as he tore open another box. He riffled through a file folder that contained a long list of famous mimes. "Did you know that Dwarvish history is kept strictly on paper? No digitization allowed, not even as a backup. ''It makes sure we value our history,'' they said." He snorted, flinging box and paper onto his pile. "I value the data, carefully kept."
"Paper burns," said Roger, having moved into the room.
"Exactly right. One misplaced match and whoosh! And the older it is, the faster it goes up." He threw away another box and grabbed the next, ripping open the top with one practiced hand. "I mean, look, it''s heavy and inconvenient to move around, it''s hard to copy, there''s just no point."
"Paper, paper burns," said Roger.
"Yep. And water damage! Don''t even get me started on humidity control. I mean, a handwritten document can be a beautiful thing, but we''re talking literally tons of books."
"Paper, burns," said Roger.
"Well you for sure got that one nailed down," D''khara said, finally looking up, box still in hand. "Why are you so obsessed with-- oh drizzt!"
Flames hungrily licked up the side of his pile of discarded boxes. They were already five feet tall.
"We have to get out of here! This place is a deathtrap!"
Roger giggled quietly.
"Paper burns," he replied.
D''khara grabbed Roger''s arm and ran for the exit. They were nearly there when a steel security shutter slammed down in front of the door. Alarms sounded, and a loud hissing sound started.
D''khara remembered the big red warning signs in the document repository in his old mine, and knew what that hissing meant. He started hyperventilating.
"It''s coronalon extinguishing gas!" he yelled. "To put out the fire! Don''t breathe it Roger!" He started hammering fruitlessly on the steel shutter, a crumpled file still in one fist.
Roger sniffed experimentally and shrugged. He turned his gaze back to the fire, unaffected.
The flames in the room started to flicker and go out, but the hissing continued.
D''khara, covering his mouth with part of his uniform, waved Roger back, then mimicked throwing a grenade. Roger, in a rare fit of insight, caught on and nodded, grinning hugely. He enthusiastically tore a grenade from his vest and rolled it toward the door.
D''khara was trying his best not to breathe while communicating and panicking and getting double vision, so he could perhaps be forgiven for failing to articulate that yes he wanted Roger to throw one of his many grenades, but no he did not mean a thermite grenade.
Thermite burns at nearly 3,000 degrees, and has its own oxygen chemically bound, so coronalon gas is utterly ineffective against it.
The grenade flared, shining too brightly to look at as it sparked and sprayed and melted itself into a puddle of burning metal. The pool of sizzling, molten slag burned through the wooden floorboards and dropped down to the floor below.
D''khara realized how this disaster was unfolding, and ran for the window. He yanked on it fruitlessly. Decades of "not my job" while painting had glued the windows permanently shut.
Pointing at the window, he motioned for Roger to throw something through it.
Roger nodded gleefully and grabbed D''khara by the shoulders.
"ROGER DON''T YOU DAAAAAAAA--" he got out as he crashed through the glass. 12 - The Byrd Mansion Heist, Part 6: Roger Saves The Day, Kinda
Oliver was hiding in the sparse woods at the rear of the property. He was standing behind a tree in the hopes of not being seen.
The woods were poor for hiding in. The trees were narrow and tall and straight, with no low limbs to provide cover. Some kind of pine, Oliver thought. Moreover, the trees were spaced fairly far apart.
The only thing keeping him hidden was the failing light. The falling dusk cast weird shadows throughout the thinly wooded area, and the security forces hunting him had flashlights mounted to their rifles. The beams swept back and forth across the lawn occasionally flashing by him, making his breath stop.
His bulk bulged ridiculously out from behind the tree. He felt horribly exposed, but the guards were too close for him to feel comfortable moving any further back into the woods. He was trapped.
Theoretically, orcs were bulletproof against lighter rounds, but he''d never tested that against his own personal skin, and furthermore it looked as though the security team had had time to swap out their submachine guns for heavier rifles. There was no telling what kinds of rounds they were firing, nor how well Oliver would stand up to it.
Best to remain quiet for now.
He carefully watched the guards as best he could. The lowering sun was too dim to provide much useful light, but still fired blinding beams into his eyes when he looked in the direction of the sunset.
They were methodically covering the property, searching for him. It was only a matter of time before--
"Hey! Over here!" One of the guards had poked into the woods and found him.
Roaring, Oliver slapped a nearby tree, snapping the trunk off and leaving a three foot tall stump. The tree slammed down onto the guard, who crumpled beneath the crashing timber. It didn''t even slow down on its way to the ground.
Oliver bolted.
Bobbing beams sought him out as the light faded and flashlights came on. With his long limbs, Oliver could cover a lot of open ground, but now he was crashing through the woods, trying to find a way further back into the trees to hide. He hoped that if he could get far enough back, the woods would thicken up enough to hide him. He kept caroming off trees in the uncertain light, creating a racket as he crashed through, knocking over the occasional pine. Shards of light shot back and forth, trying to track him.
He''d gotten himself turned around, and all of a sudden burst out of the woods, whooping in huge gasps, trying to catch his breath. The rattle of automatic fire sounded on at least two sides, and he bolted again.
Now out in the open, he quickly outdistanced the guards, but the rifles kept firing, and spits of dirt sprayed up around him as missed shots plowed into the landscaping.
With a little room now, but still running, Oliver pulled out his datapad. He swiped Fleer''s number. He had no idea what he could say, if anything, or if Fleer could help at all, but that was his lifeline. The line buzzed for a few moments, then disconnected. Groaning and huffing, Oliver stuffed the pad away and continued on.
Despite his speed, he was only able to sprint a short distance. Huge ragged breaths tore at his throat as he slowed. He was long and powerful, but he didn''t have the endurance for an extended run.
The guards were rapidly closing the gap. They had stopped firing, and were drawing closer. By design, there was almost no cover in the broad, rolling hills. Oliver turned toward the mansion. If only he could get inside, get some cover, get some help, hide, breathe.
The guards paced themselves as they closed in. Oliver''s run turned into a jog, and his jog into a trudge. It was clear he was used up. Oliver reached the mansion, heaving hoarsely, and fetched up against a solid brick wall. No doors here. The only windows were a floor up. He leaned against the wall, gasping, took a couple of shambling steps and slid to the ground. The circle of men tightened around him.
"Sir, we have the big one surrounded," one of them said into his radio. The radio garbled back at him. "Yes sir, still alive." More screechy gibberish. "Understood, sir."
The guard raised his rifle. The rest followed suit. Oliver cowered.
From above came a tinkling crash, followed by a glorious sight: a dwarvish warrior flying through the air, moustache streaming behind him, shrieking ancient war cries. Every eye turned as D''khara screamed down. Oliver could easily imagine him with a wicked hooked axe in either hand, churning into the fray, ready to grind up any enemy. This book is hosted on another platform. Read the official version and support the author''s work.
With a thick whump, D''khara hit the ground nearby.
The guards stared over at D''khara. The guards looked up at the second floor. Roger''s gleeful visage peered down from the broken window.
"I have candyhands!" he crowed.
"Oh cram," Oliver said, and flung himself over the recumbent dwarf.
In the darkening twilight, the guards could not see the grenades raining down, but they could hear the thuds as they hit the ground. Oliver curled into a ball over D''khara.
Realizing too late what was happening, the guards tried to scatter.
With a series of loud bangs, the grenades scattered the guards in a much more literal way.
Viewing his handiwork with pride, Roger called out, "Catch me, my queen!" and leapt from the window.
It wasn''t clear who he thought would catch him, since Oliver and D''khara were both still on the ground. It didn''t seem to matter much, since Roger belly-flopped onto the ground from the second-story window, and immediately popped back onto his feet.
"Roger," D''khara croaked, still recovering from his fall, "you''re crazy."
Mrs. Meade sat behind the wheel of the Battle Wagon, enjoying the sunset as her vehicle idled crankily. Her half-moon glasses sat low on her nose, and a gentle smile rested on her face.
It was quiet at this end of the property, and until the boys needed to leave, her work was done. She had some knitting laid aside, but the sunset was breathtaking. The console had a small, elderly picture of a man mounted in it. He had a genuine smile and tired eyes, and wore flat-topped glasses and a thin mustache.
She patted the picture with a palsied hand.
"We''re doing alright, aren''t we, Edgar? These boys are so sweet to me, you''d think they were our own--" She stopped with a distressed expression. "Well, they work very hard. And that Mr. Fleer was so kind to keep us on. He is a sharp young man, make no mistake."
She stroked the console gently. "I''ve tried so hard to take care of our Battle Wagon," she said. "Forty years and I''ve kept it running. It reminds me of you. Reminds me of the times we had." She blushed a little.
"I was so afraid of what would happen to it after, when I come to you. Now I know these boys will take care of it, just like they take care of me. They''re good boys. All things considered, they''re good boys."
Tears welled up a little, and she sighed a little as the sun slipped fully below the horizon, and the sky darkened.
A shadow moved outside near the Battle Wagon. Paused, moved again. Eventually three young men in maroon shirts slunk into the clearing.
Thomas, Richard, and Harold technically worked for Star Security, inasmuch as they worked at all. They''d found each other years before and bonded over their mutual distaste of effort, competence, and general work ethic.
As soon as the shooting had started in the mansion, they''d wandered off.
"We''ll check the west pasture," Thomas said.
"Close off their routes of escape," Richard added.
"In case of... they can''t... escape," said Harold, straining his mental faculties.
When they''d come across the Battle Wagon, it appeared abandoned, but after a cautious investigation, they discovered that the only occupant was a little old lady who was crying and talking to herself.
They weren''t the kind to accept much personal risk, but a little light banditry was right in their collective wheelhouse. It looked like bonus time had come early for the trio.
The three briefly scouted around the Battle Wagon, but there were no guards posted, no defenses set up, nothing protecting the vehicle.
They shared a brief nod, then Thomas strolled saucily up and tapped on the window with the barrel of his pistol.
Mrs. Meade started at the noise, looked at the three, and smiled. She manually rolled down the window with excruciating slowness.
"Hey lady, this is a no parking zone," Thomas said.
"Yeah, and it''s not even on the road," Richard noted.
"Yeah, and, uh, that''s against the law," added Harold, who couldn''t think of much else to add.
"Oh, I''m so very sorry," replied Mrs. Meade. "I just need to be here for a few minutes while the boys finish up their work. Would you all like some candy while we wait? I have some right here..." She began rooting around in her purse.
"Their work?" asked Thomas, looking over his shoulder.
"When are they coming back?" asked Richard, clutching his gun.
"Who are the boys?" asked Harold, who tended to stay a step or two behind current events.
"Oh, they''re all fine young men. They''re taking a delivery at the house down there. I said a few minutes, but really they probably won''t be back for another half-hour or so. Do you think it would be all right if I stayed here just that long? I promise I''ll leave just as soon as they''re done."
The trio grinned at one another.
"Can''t do that. We''ll have to fine you," said Thomas with a wicked smile.
"We''ll have to confiscate your van and all your stuff," added Richard, grinning evilly.
"Yeah, and... and your stuff. The best stuff." appended Harold.
"Oh, well, I... I just couldn''t," said Mrs. Meade, tears welling up in her eyes. "I''m very sorry, I didn''t know this was... I-- could you let me off with just a little warning this time? I promise to be more careful in the future."
The three burst out laughing.
"Lady, get out of the van," chortled Thomas.
"Yeah, this is a van-jacking," said Richard.
"Hur hur, you said ''jacking''," added Harold, exhibiting the breadth of his comedic oeuvre.
Mrs. Meade''s shocked face gave the trio a fresh round of hilarity.
"You mean... you''re robbing me? You''re brigands? Rapscallions? Are you bad boys?" Her brows drew down in a fury.
"Come on, lady, out of the van," Thomas laughed, reaching for the door handle.
"Yeah, time to walk home," added Richard.
"Um, um, um guys?" Harold said, experiencing a rare lucid moment as the door swung open, revealing the terminal sight of a chrome-barreled Withers-Simmons .357 revolver, with Mrs. Meade''s half-moon spectacles gleaming from behind it. 13 - The Byrd Mansion Heist: The Conclusion
D''khara, Oliver, and Roger ran across the dark lawn, away from the growing conflagration at the mansion. Roaring billows of flame already obscured half the place, and the few remaining guards were focused less on the escapees, and more on escaping the fire themselves.
The Riotfish caught sight of the white Battle Wagon, red now in the glow of the massive fire, and redoubled their efforts to reach it as fast as possible. In the pell-mell dash D''khara''s foot fetched up against something, and he sprawled full-length on the ground.
Rolling over, he saw that he''d tripped over a body. Well, most of a body.
"Mrs. Meade, are you okay?" Oliver asked.
She sat behind the wheel of the Battle Wagon, grim-faced and seething.
"There were young men that were very rude to me," she hissed. "They were bad boys!"
D''khara stood and looked at what he''d tripped over. It was missing most of its head. Paying more attention now, he found another body splayed out face down, with a huge hole in its back.
D''khara made a face. Of course he would trip over the messy one.
"Is there anything we can do to assist you?" Oliver asked gently.
"Oh, no," Mrs. Meade replied, her tears welling up again. "I''m sorry, Mr. Oliver. I''m not mad at you. I just don''t understand this day and age, when three grown men would attack a helpless old lady."
"Helpless, right," muttered D''khara, dragging his boot along the grass to get some of the mess off.
"Manypops!" added Roger.
Oliver squeezed into the passenger seat as D''khara and Roger loaded up in the back of the wagon.
"Mrs. Meade, did you say there were three?" Oliver asked as she started the Battle Wagon. "I ask because there were only two b--URK!" He cut off as the Battle Wagon jerked violently forward and stopped.
With a stone face, Mrs. Meade slammed it into reverse, and the Battle Wagon jerked and stopped again. Forward, jerk, stop. Backward, jerk, stop.
"There must be something jammed in the wheel well," she gritted.
A few more jerking starts, and whatever was jammed in the wheel well fell loose. The Battle Wagon lifted noticeably as it rolled over it.
"I had to chastise them most severely," she said.
"Yes," Oliver said. "I imagine, um, they are, um, that is to say, extremely chastised."
"Wait," said D''khara, "Where''s Little Timmy? He didn''t come out with us."
They turned as one to consider the mansion, now full aflame.
"You don''t think..."
"BWAAAAAH!!!" screamed Little Timmy, slamming his hands on the passenger window. He had crept up in the dark and decided that what everybody needed after a botched mission and a couple unexpected dead bodies was a good scare.
This is the kind of decision maker Little Timmy was.
He rolled laughing on the ground. Oliver stepped out and threw him into the Battle Wagon hard enough to bounce him off the back doors before he hit the floor, likely saving him from the opportunity to personally jam up another wheel well.
The Battle Wagon quietly trundled off into the night.
Several miles away, with the Battle Wagon parked, the Riotfish sat in the back, contemplating the glow on the horizon that represented their incandescent failure.
"So." Oliver said. "David is expecting a situation report any minute now."
They all avoided each others'' gazes.
"I don''t suppose the file we retrieved was the one we were looking for?"
More awkward scuffing of feet and minute investigation of shoes.
"It''s just some old transaction records," D''khara admitted, handing over the few crumpled pages he''d clung to.
"Any real intel at all?"
The interior corners of the Battle Wagon became fascinating.
Oliver pulled out a datapad.
"One of us has to contact him." He set the datapad on the floor in their midst. "Rock paper scissors?"
The first few rounds ended quickly, as Roger had unnatural luck, and D''khara had spent most of his formative years with only two games to play in the mines: "Rock Paper Scissors" and "Let''s Hit Eldred Until He Cries".
Oliver and Little Timmy faced each other over the datapad, fists clenched in their palms. Oliver sounded off the cadence slowly.
"Rock... paper... scissors... shoot!"
Oliver''s fist planted firmly in his palm, and Little Timmy''s fist briefly showed scissors before switching to paper.
"Little Timmy, that''s cheating!" Oliver bellowed. "You can''t change what you threw! You lost, now you have to make the call!"
Little Timmy gave a sickly grin, shrugged, and shrank back a little. His face contorted, tensed, then relaxed.
"Timmy don''t you dare!" howled Oliver, grabbing him by the shoulders. "You can''t leave now!"
Little Timmy''s head rocked back and forth as Oliver shook him. His face smoothed and became kindly, the sharp edges softening, the pupils becoming a more human size, with the crinkles around his eyes hinting at old mirth.
He blinked rapidly and looked up. The narrative has been taken without authorization; if you see it on Amazon, report the incident.
"Oliver? What''s going on?"
D''khara covered his face with one hand. What a time for Dr. Navarre to finally show up.
"I-- you-- Oliver visibly took a moment to compose himself. "Hello, Dr. Navarre. I apologize for my roughness. Little Timmy switched out at a bad time."
"I''m terribly sorry," Dr. Navarre replied. Even his voice sounded different from Little Timmy''s. Gentler and calmer. "Is everybody okay? Any injuries?"
"No one is in imminent danger," Oliver groused. "There are some contusions and minor burns. Now I need to make a call." So saying, he snatched up the pad and stomped out of the Battle Wagon, which rocked heavily and lifted noticeably on its wheels as he stormed out.
Dr. Navarre set about patching up the few injuries Roger and D''khara had sustained.
"I''m sorry," he said as he gently spread soothing ointment on D''khara''s burns. "I know it''s difficult having Little Timmy and I share a body. Share a mind." A troubled look crossed his face. "I hope someday he and I can re-integrate. As our personalities become more similar, we come closer and closer to becoming a single person again." He carefully rolled a bandage around Roger''s arm. "Tell me, did he seem calmer this time? Closer to me?"
D''khara gave a sickly grin and noncommittally rocked his hand back and forth.
"It''s a fire!" Roger said gleefully.
Dr. Navarre continued his ministrations in silence. Oliver''s voice could be heard drifting in from outside.
"Ah, yes sir. No casualties on our side. Um, Battle Wagon''s fine. No sir. No, not as such. No, not a complete success. No. No, I don''t think so. Um. No, we couldn''t... well, there were some unforeseen circumstances. Yes. Yes sir. No, no file." Oliver pulled the datapad away from his ear as the volume on the other end spiked sharply. He continued speaking with his ear away from the datapad.
"Well, there was, I mean we found... I don''t think so, no. We, uh, may have burned it down a little." He jerked his ear away from the pad again and poked his head into the Battle Wagon.
"I think he''d rather talk to you, D''khara," Oliver whispered, holding out the datapad.
Pinch-lipped and wide-eyed, D''khara shook his head and said nothing.
The Battle Wagon rolled up to the tired old warehouse the Riotfish called home. The neighborhood was in a run-down, mostly abandoned industrial district, which meant there were no neighbors at night, which was usually nice, especially when Roger was having one of his episodes. But tonight it just felt lonely. The single functioning streetlight at the end of the block flickered as the Battle Wagon stopped in front of the giant steel shutter built into the side of the building.
Mrs. Meade punched in the code on her dash that would unlock the garage. The shutter shuddered, clanging upward. She pulled in and everyone disembarked.
It was a defeated crew that schluffed in from the garage, reeking of smoke. Dr. Navarre went into his room and closed the door, D''khara dropped his shotgun on the floor and sank into the recliner in the sitting area, and Oliver flumped full-length onto the sofa, straining its structural integrity to its absolute limits.
Even Roger was uncharacteristically muted.
With Fleer out of town, they didn''t even have the catharsis of his disappointed glares or snarky comments to contend with.
D''khara leaned back and stared at the ceiling.
He had to succeed here. He''d failed at every single thing he''d ever worked at since the accident. That had to stop.
Ninety-nine years of bad luck. He just needed a break. This one break. Please.
Dakarva D''khara.
He replayed the mission in his mind. Where had it all gone wrong?
The file room, obviously. Roger had gotten bored and it all unraveled from there. And he''d gotten bored because D''khara took too long. And he took too long because he was too short to reach all the shelves quickly.
He cringed as he remembered climbing the shelves. What he must have looked like.
He came to a decision. He threw himself to his feet and stormed back to his workshop.
Fine, he was a dwarf. And the standout feature of dwarves was that they were short.
He slammed a rod of steel stock onto his workbench.
Well. He wouldn''t be short any more.
Later, Fleer sat at his desk in his dim office, hunched over, staring blearily at the screen and scrolling through the finance spreadsheets without really seeing them-- they rolled by in a smeary scattershot of unreadable red numbers.
He''d skipped the last two days of his conference, forfeiting the prepaid hotel, caught another red-eye flight back to HQ, paying the outrageous cancellation fee, and dashed back to-- do nothing much. He''d spent the trip haggling with Datatura over the details of the contract, and whether Riotfish''s burning the mansion down constituted "gross negligence" or just "combat exigencies".
Fleer had tried to argue that Datatura''s goal with the data-- obscuring the ownership of the land grant-- had been accomplished by burning down the mansion and all the records with it. The Datatura contact countered that, since they didn''t have the records in hand, there was no guarantee that they hadn''t survived somehow, and wouldn''t crop up later as an issue in arbitration.
Fleer had seen pictures of the mansion on the newsfeeds, and was quite comfortable that no records had survived. But the Datatura contact would not be moved on that point.
At the end of everything Datatura allowed that Riotfish could keep the 10% up-front fee, and they wouldn''t drag the whole matter into arbitration. Fleer had been angling for more, but the non-arbitration concession was a huge relief to him, so he didn''t push too hard.
He felt comfortable that "combat exigencies" was the correct answer to the question of what went wrong, and it was an easy argument for a mercenary outfit to make, but without having been there he wasn''t sure he wanted to try to argue that in front of a mediator. Not with as little working capital as Riotfish, Inc. had.
After the stressful flight was done, he''d realized there was really no need for him here at HQ, except to wrap up the paperwork for the failed contract and line up another job.
All that rush and scuffle, to no good purpose. He sighed forcefully and scrubbed his face. They''d needed that money from the Byrd mansion job! The up-front fee kept the thing from being a net-negative venture, but they had to add money to the bottom line, not just tread water.
His desktop bleeped at him. Wearily, he swiped to answer it. Maybe it was work. Maybe it was--
Fleer was shocked and unsettled by seeing both founders of Vermiforme pop up on his screen. Red-eyed and drained, he did his best to put on a good face.
"Ah, Mr. Yanni and Mr. Sonam! How wonderful to speak with you both together!"
Sonam turned to Yanni.
"Is this him? This that Riotfisher guy?"
"Yes"! Fleer said. "We''ve been discussing a sponsorship to bring our business into the Mercenary''s Guild. This would allow both our businesses to grow and thrive--"
"Yeah, we saw your handiwork on the newsfeeds." He flicked a subvideo onto Fleer''s screen. It showed drone footage of the Byrd mansion, fully engulfed and billowing angry flames.
Fleer tried to grin through the nausea that suddenly crept over him.
"Uh, our recent job had some exigencies---"
"David," Yanni piped in, "David, you''re my guy, you know that, right? But this kind of thing, it looks bad. It''s bad, right? I mean, we don''t want to seem like we''re condoning that kind of thing. Look, you guys get yourselves squared away, let this thing die down and maybe in like six months or whatever, come talk to us again."
"Yes, well, I thank you for your time and consid--"
But Sonam leaned forward and disconnected the call.
Fleer laid his head on his desk and tried not to throw up.
After allowing himself a long minute of deep self-pity, Fleer forced himself up. He swept the spreadsheets away. He was in no shape to work on the finances. Maybe clearing out his messages would help.
As soon as he popped them up, the message from Crediture caught his eye again. It still looked like spam, but he got a nasty premonition.
He opened it. Dear DAVID FLEER, This letter is to inform you that one of your creditors, LESSY HOLDINGS, has been acquired by Crediture, a finance and loan company. As part of the acquisition, we are reviewing our position on the riskier debts held by LESSY HOLDINGS. Your company, RIOTFISH INC., has come to our attention as an account of concern. We will be sending an auditor to your facility to review your financial records and operations to better understand the risk profile you present. Please be prepared with all records, organizing documents, and relevant paperwork. The dates and information of the audit are outlined below: Location: RIOTFISH, INC. HEADQUARTERS Auditor: STEWART PEARCE, SR. AUDITOR Date: AUG 14, 2443 Thank you for your cooperation in this matter.
Fleer''s panic rose the further he read, and by the time he hit the date, he was sitting bolt upright.
"The fourteenth? That''s tomorrow!"
He dashed out of his office to get everyone else as panicked as he was. 14 - Preparing for the Audit
The Riotfish were gathered in the lounge, listening to Fleer''s news.
"Okay! Guys! We need to get this place in top shape by the time this auditor shows up. We want to look professional and clean and creditworthy. We need to prove to this guy that we are a viable, vibrant business that will totally pay back all the money we owe him."
Worried murmurs rustled around the room.
"How-- how much of a problem is this audit?" D''khara asked timorously, as though he could not see the panic openly oozing from Fleer''s every pore.
"I''m not going to lie, this is huge. If this auditor downgrades us, it could be a real blow to our cash flow, which is already tight."
"Should we tidy the HQ, or...?" Oliver trailed off.
Fleer, who was already thinking of how he would make the finances look less disastrous, responded with a distant air.
"Huh? Sure. I mean, just make us look professional. Like we know what we''re doing."
"What else can we do?"
Distracted from his thoughts again, Fleer got snappish.
"Do? Just... I don''t know, figure it out! Really put out the welcome mat for this guy! Impress him! I need everyone to come together and make this happen in a big way. I''ll be in my office if anybody needs anything."
So saying, Fleer bustled off to wrangle spreadsheets.
Looks of concern passed around the room, uncertainty filling everyone''s eyes.
Except for Roger. Roger knew exactly what he needed to do.
Look professional? Well, what would make the Riotfish look more professional than a well-stocked armory?
D''khara glared at the pile of rifles. It was ridiculous, the number of Borka automatic rifles the Riotfish owned. Even Roger couldn''t conceivably use more than three, or maybe four at a time. The ridiculousness was only slightly dwarfed by the number of rifles that were permanently non-operational.
There were at least sixty rifles in various states of disrepair and neglect lying in a jagged, disorganized pile on the floor. With some luck, he could salvage enough parts to build five or six fully functional rifles. For someone else to shoot. He, personally, wouldn''t touch them.
He tugged distractedly at his mustache. It aggravated him to even think it, but this pile of trash parts had one advantage: they looked like rifles. Knock the rust off, new bluing on the steel and a fresh coat of stain, and you''d think they''d just rolled out of the factory.
He frowned deeply. Doing a sloppy, incomplete job was fundamentally against his nature, but if it was this or the mines, well, that wasn''t even really a question.
He glanced at the clock. Sanding and bluing this many rifles by himself would take days, not hours. He needed a faster solution.
He stomped out to the storage area to fetch the 55-gallon drum of wood stripper, and to see if they had any black lacquer.
Oliver busied himself in the war room, organizing his documents. He was preparing a high-level overview of his tactical planning, the Riotfish assets, and logistical capabilities. He walked around and around the projection table, carefully arranging the files into folders, the folders into categories, and the categories into groups.
"I''ll start with the Riotfish mission statement," he muttered as he worked. "Then I''ll address the three top-level bullet points: Agility, Surprise, and Flexibility, and dive briefly into our implementation of each element. I''ll pause for questions, then move into our command structure and planning policies. Time permitting, perhaps I can delve into our team dynamic and specialties.
As he muttered and puttered in the dimness, the sun sank outside. The day was nearly done.
Little Timmy lounged on the sprung sofa, watching the holopad. The bustle and scuffle of the other Riotfish didn''t affect him much. Not when he had all these commercials to watch.
Mrs. Meade wandered by with a mop in one hand and a bucket in the other.
"Little Timmy? What will you be doing for our guest?"
He grunted, his eyes never moving from the holopad.
"I dunno. Whatever. What are you doing?"
"Oh, I''ve washed and waxed the Battle Wagon, scrubbed up all the restrooms so clean, and now I''m just tidying up the main areas. I thought that when the auditor comes tomorrow, I''d bake him some fresh, homemade cookies. Won''t that be nice? Everybody likes a little treat." Stolen from its original source, this story is not meant to be on Amazon; report any sightings.
Little Timmy grunted again.
"Can you think of something you could do to help him feel welcome in our little home?"
Little Timmy ignored her, staring slackly at the images dancing on the buzzing circular pad until she gave up and wandered off.
Roger was in the back area of the Riotfish HQ, diligently digging through a box. He hadn''t found what he was looking for yet, but if they had one anywhere, it would be in the long-forgotten rooms and mazes of old junk in the back.
The next morning dawned dimly, the sun''s weak, white rays washing the walls of the Riotfish HQ. Mrs. Meade was the first one up, as always, making coffee in the kitchen. She always made coffee for everyone, though she never seemed to drink any herself.
Little Timmy stumbled into the kitchen, bleary-eyed. He made a drunken beeline to the coffee pot, snagged a dirty mug from the sink, and poured a cup of Mrs. Meade''s coffee into it. He slammed it back, downing the steaming beverage in two long gulps, screamed, and poured himself another cup.
Mrs. Meade, accustomed to this, didn''t flinch.
"So Little Timmy, have you thought about what you might do for our visitor today?"
Little Timmy stretched his face and rolled his eyes. This already.
"I haven''t even had coffee yet. Not even my coffee. And you''re hassling me about this."
"I just think that Mr. Fleer will be very upset if you haven''t done anything for our visitor."
"Fine, fine. I''m gonna do something. I''ll..."
In a daze, he glanced around the kitchen. Mrs. Meade had already started preparing cookie dough; the bowl sat on the counter. This percolated through his brain along with the first rush of caffeine as the burning coffee worked its way through his protesting system.
"I am gonna make a pizza."
"Oh? I didn''t know you could make pizza."
"I can. Totally. It''s very famous. So, uh, I need you to clear out of the kitchen so I can work."
"Oh, but the cookies--"
"No, it''s fine, I''ll take care of it. It''s good."
"Are you sure?"
"Go on. I need to make the magic. Go pet your van or whatever."
Mrs. Meade huffed out of the kitchen, leaving Little Timmy to his own devices.
He dashed the remaining coffee from his mug onto his face, screamed some more, and poured another cup, staring at the bowl of cookie dough. Making a pizza was going to be so easy.
After all, the dough was already done.
D''khara snerked awake at his workbench. He blinked muzzily, trying to remember why he was sleeping in the armory. His field of vision swept over to the rifle racks, where the orderly row of Borkas sparked his memory.
Oh yeah. The audit.
He slid out of his chair and wobbled over to the rifles, yawning hugely. The stain was setting well into the stocks for all that it had only been drying a few hours, but the lacquer looked tacky and lackluster. Hm. Maybe a quick extra surface coat this morning would gloss them up a little. He nodded.
The armory was sorted. Now for that last thing in his purview.
D''khara stomped back over to his workbench and pulled a device off the crowded surface, spilling tools and steel bar stock onto the floor. Shaking the pieces loose from each other, he considered what he held in his hands.
Well if he was ever going to try them, now was the time.
He carefully fitted the devices to his legs: first one, then the other. He strapped his feet in firmly, then gently stood.
He rocked back and forth experimentally and took a few steps. So far so good.
He fished out a small wired fob, held his breath and softly eased the switch forward.
The extenders on his legs hissed quietly. The hydraulics operated, and the shank rods that held the whole assemblage extended, lifting him a foot higher off the ground.
With a small smile that bordered on smug, he walked around on the most complicated stilts ever devised. The footpads on the bottoms of the extenders flexed with his toes, giving him a natural walking gait. His balance was iffy, but a little practice quickly smoothed that out. Grinning more, he jogged around the open armory, testing his longer legs.
The extenders clacked together, nearly throwing him over, but he was able to catch his balance. He let out a slow breath.
Don''t push that luck.
After more testing and walking around, D''khara nodded. Perfect. He''d fixed his shortness. Maybe now the auditor wouldn''t be able to tell he was a dwarf?
He left the armory and walked back to his bunk, fob in one hand. Once there, he closed the door and looked at himself in the cheap full-length mirror that was barely attached to the back of his door.
The extenders were slim steel appendages reaching from his stubby feet to the floor. With his... upper body density, the overall visual effect was one of an angry lollipop.
He frowned deeply.
He''d need longer pants to cover the extenders.
And the only person who was even close to his waist size was Little Timmy. Who he did not want to ask favors from.
But if Little Timmy didn''t know...
Little Timmy was swearing and bleeding and trying to cut vegetables with a steak knife. The cookie dough had been hammered into a couple of pizza pans, and two empty jars of spaghetti sauce lay on the counter. The majority of the sauce was on the pizzas, but no small amount was sprayed on various walls and appliances of the kitchen, the result of a small fit he''d had trying to get a lid off.
The selection of vegetables was a bit limited. The Riotfish as a whole did not go in for a lot of fresh veggies, in spite of Mrs. Meade''s best efforts. Little Timmy had found some bell peppers, for a wonder, and something that was probably a mummified onion, which he was trying to chop into little pieces. It kept rolling around on the counter, making the knife slip.
He sheared more skin off his fingers with a little shriek, and flung the knife at the wall. Casting about, he spotted the blender tucked into the corner of the counter.
"There!" he said. "That''s what I''ve been missing! The right tool for the job!"
He pulled the blender out, dumped in the bell peppers, the probably-onion, a can of black olives, some shredded cheese, and a handful of questionable mushrooms he''d found in the bottom of the fridge. He briefly considered the pepperoni, but decided to put those on after, since they were already sliced.
"Artistic!" he crowed.
He pushed the button to start the blender. He pushed the button to stop the blender, wiped his face off, put the lid on the jar, and pushed the button to start the blender again.
The blender whirred merrily for a minute or two. He stopped it, shook the jar around some, watching the contents slosh, and ran it some more.
Once the slurry met his satisfaction, he poured it liberally on the pizzas. He piled on some more cheese, carefully laid the pepperonis on the surface, and stuck the pizzas, such as they were, into the oven.
"Job done!" he called triumphantly. 15 - The Audit, Part 1: First Impressions Matter
Stewart Pearce sedately drove his sedan through progressively seedier neighborhoods, finally reaching a dead-end street. He didn''t like driving on these poorly maintained roads; the uneven surface was rough on the gravwells. But he went where his job took him, and today it took him to-- he''d pursed his full lips when he''d read the name this morning-- the "Riotfish." Clearly, an organization that failed to take itself at all seriously.
He parked his car in front of their warehouse, lowering the parking skids gently onto the road surface. He winced a little as the car settled at a slight angle due to the uneven street.
His car, like himself, was eminently practical: neither flashy nor hard to maintain, a little out of date but running well.
He unfolded his thin frame from the driver''s seat, patting his hair back in place.
He was tall and narrow, with a face that fell naturally into a disapproving frown. Slim spectacles perched low on his nose, and his hair, though receding at the temples, was meticulously coiffed. His suit was somber, old, and clean, and his shoes were well-polished, just so. He bore his slim datapad like a king wields his scepter, his source of authority.
He strode toward the front door and faltered almost immediately. There was a large green lump of something blocking the entrance.
The lump rolled over, revealing itself to be some kind of lizard creature lying on the ground in front of the door. Stewart Pearce had never heard of such a thing-- lurid tales of lizardmen and their kidnapped maidens were not his bailiwick. He backed up two steps when it spoke.
"Put your foot on meeeee..."
"I beg your pardon?"
"Put your foot on meeee..."
Pearce stood in stunned shock.
"We are out of welcome mats. I am a mat. Call me Matt!"
Now Stewart Pearce was a man who knew who he was and where he was going in life. Early on he''d decided upon and followed a carefully laid out plan, each step proceeding naturally and easily from the one before: earn these grades, go to this school, get that internship. So far everything had proceeded precisely according to his strategy. Surprise was not something he relished.
Thus he was not best pleased when Roger''s hand shot out, grabbed his ankle, and attempted to drag him bodily over to wipe his feet on the welcome Matt.
Gibbering, Pearce wrenched himself away, losing a shoe to Roger''s grip. Roger vigorously rubbed the sole of the purloined footwear on his face. With that done, he reached up, opened the door to the HQ, and carefully placed the shoe just inside.
"Next!" he hissed.
"No!" Pearce warbled, trying to balance on his one shod foot. "Return my shoe this instant!"
"Roger, what are you--" D''khara wandered up from inside lugging a bucket of some noxious chemical, and stopped dead when he saw Pearce in a stork stance a safe distance from Roger, who lay in front of the door, patiently waiting for the other shoe. "--oh, f''nharg drafl," he cursed softly.
He quickly set his bucket aside, and pushed Roger out of the way.
"Roger, no! Move!"
"But I''m the Matt!" Roger complained.
"No! We need to give the nice man back his shoe and let him in." This story has been taken without authorization. Report any sightings.
"But the shoe germs! All bassy and funk! Others must know."
"Go, Roger! Just go!"
After a minor scuffle, D''khara managed to shoo Roger off, and return Pearce''s shoe to him.
"I am sorry, sir. Roger''s just a little excited that you''re here."
Pearce stiffly returned his shoe to his foot.
"And this Roger works here?"
"Ah, yes. Yes, he does."
"As a janitor, I hope?"
"He''s close support, actually. He''s a phenomenon on the battlefield. A real terror to enemy forces."
"And their shoes, I''d imagine. And you are... a dwarf?"
"Uh, yes, sir. Racially, that is. Not genetically. If you catch my meaning."
A long moment passed while Pearce stared at D''khara.
"I do not. What is your responsibility here?"
"Oh! I''m D''khara Arilburr, and I''m close support as well. I also run the armory and repairs and so forth. Would you like to see?"
"I suppose, if I must." D''khara led the way inside.
They walked to the armory, their footfalls echoing off the concrete floor. D''khara was confident, smoothly walking in his newly-built leg extenders. He''d adjusted the controls slightly, only giving himself an extra eight inches, bringing him to the heady heights of five foot two. The purloined pants he was wearing puddled weirdly around the bottoms of the extenders, and smelled unpleasantly like Little Timmy, but it couldn''t be helped.
D''khara nervously stuck his hands in his pockets. The motion accidentally triggered the fob, and the extenders suddenly extended to their full eighteen inches, launching the unhappy dwarf several feet into the air with a squawk. D''khara stumbled on the landing, but managed to catch himself. He looked at Pearce, who was looking back at him in utter confusion while D''khara, now an even six feet tall, stared at him eye to eye.
"Um, armory''s this way," he said, breaking the confused silence.
As he walked, he tried to subtly wind the extenders down a hair, but he hadn''t designed them for subtlety, and he walked with a stuttering gait that hissed and bounced and dropped him several inches every few steps.
They finally arrived at the armory. The sharp stink of fresh lacquer permeated the room.
D''khara waved his hands around awkwardly.
"Well, here it is."
"Hm. How... utilitarian." Pearce pulled out his datapad and punched in some data. "I shall be very interested to see how your records match your inventory."
D''khara pulled up short.
"Records?"
"Yes, documents detailing what weapons you have and where they are."
"I... will... look for those. Right now." He stiff-legged it over to a filing cabinet that had been in the armory when he was hired.
He could easily reach the top drawer now, at least. He pulled it open to find it completely empty.
The second drawer, consistently, was also empty. The third contained an old rat trap, and he couldn''t reach the bottom drawer without falling over on his face. He stuck his hand in his pocket to lower the extenders, but the fob caught on the fabric, again triggering the extenders to their full height. With a barked dwarvish curse that he couldn''t hold back, he bounced off the filing cabinet and into a wall. Muttering darkly, he managed to get his hand around the fob and lowered himself to a more normal height. The pants legs puddled around his feet. He pulled open the bottom drawer to find the remains of the rat that the third drawer trap had probably been intended for. He grimaced and slowly closed it.
"I''m sorry, are you all right?" Pearce asked.
"Great!" D''khara said. "Just getting those records you asked for. Maybe they''re here in this desk." He shuffled over to the battered desk he''d barely used and started sifting through drawers while Pearce wandered over to inspect the Borkas.
D''khara looked up just in time to see Pearce reaching for one of the rifles.
"Oh, please don''t--" he managed to get out as Pearce picked one up.
The unfastened barrel tilted out of the stock as Pearce lifted it, falling free and brushing Pearce''s crisp white shirt, leaving a fat, nasty streak of jet black lacquer as it clanged to the floor with an ear-splitting ring.
"Sorry!" D''khara called, sweating. "Sorry, just, uh, doing a little maintenance on that rifle there."
Pearce put the empty gunstock back on the rack. The tacky wood stain briefly stuck to his hand, causing the stock to slide over into the next rifle, knocking the action loose just enough to allow the trigger group to pop out and zip across the armory with a comical "ping!" That rifle slowly folded out, collapsing as the unsecured action slid free of the stock.
D''khara watched in horror as it slid slowly over into the next rifle, and the next, and the next, a crescendo of ringing steel on concrete, clattering wood, and the rattle of tiny machined parts and loose springs falling and flying and spreading across the floor of the armory.
Pearce turned to D''khara.
"The records?" he asked flatly.
"Yes, let me find those," D''khara whispered.
It took D''khara twenty minutes to give up on finding the records, but he''d already given up long before that. 16 - The Audit, Part 2: Tackling the Finances
Oliver walked into the armory.
"D''khara, have you heard when the auditor will be arriving? I have my-- oh! He''s here!"
"Yes, I''m quite here." Pearce was fruitlessly scrubbing at his hands with an oily rag while watching D''khara dig hopelessly through piles of old paperwork in the desk drawers. "Quite-- uh. What are you?"
"Oh! My apologies! My name is Oliver Gutshell, and I am Riotfish''s Lead Strategist. I''m also a field operative, at need."
"No, I mean," Pearce gestured at Oliver''s commanding height, "what are you?"
Oliver bowed gracefully.
"Wood Orc. Originally of the Biter clan, now an employee of Riotfish, Incorporated, at your service."
"I see. Does this organization hire any normal people?"
Stung, Oliver deflected.
"Perhaps you''d like to review our strategy and planning policies?"
"I doubt it. But I suppose I should." Still scrubbing at his hands, he followed Oliver out into the rec area, where they came across Little Timmy.
"Ah, here''s a ''normal'' employee now. Mr. Pearce, this is Little Timmy, our demolitions expert."
Little Timmy slouched into the rec room wearing threadbare jeans, blown-out sneakers and a ratty band t-shirt that looked as though it had a coffee stain over its entirety.
"Oh hey, it''s the captain corper. Here to wreck our business?"
"I can hardly imagine what more I could do than what I already see."
"Yeah, anyway, I made lunch."
"Wonderful!" Oliver exclaimed. "Mr. Pearce, did you want to break for something to eat?"
"I''d really rather just get this over with."
"Ah. Little Timmy, would you be willing to bring lunch to us in the war room?"
Little Timmy managed to combine an eyeroll and a snort into a concentrated expulsion of disdain that expressed more contempt in a single moment than most people are able to express in an entire lifetime.
"Whatever," he said, wandering off.
Oliver ushered Stewart Pearce into the war room. It was dimly lit, as always, so that the projection table could be seen clearly. Oliver strode in, graciously offered Pearce a seat and turned to see that the projection table was completely empty. A frozen spike of panic speared his gut.
Mrs. Meade wandered out of the darkness.
"Oh, Mr. Oliver, I tidied up that table for you. It had all kinds of files and mess on it, so I cleared them away."
"Cleared... my files?"
"Oh, yes. Any little thing to help my boys!" She smiled a genuine, dim little smile and wandered out of the war room.
Hot, uncomfortable pinpricks of sweat beaded on Oliver''s forehead.
"Ehehehe, that Mrs. Meade, she''s so sweet. Give me just a moment to get my files together."
"By all means. Take your time. I''ve clearly got nothing better to do today." Pearce said flatly.
With an awkward, insincere grin, Oliver began pulling up categories and folders, trying desperately to find the files he''d so carefully organized earlier.
Most of the files were in the proper folders, but some were missing, or in the wrong folder, and all of them had been rearranged. Panicking, Oliver tried to re-organize them, but the dense weight of Pearce''s unfriendly glare grew with every second.
"Perhaps you''ll find your files with the armory''s records," Pearce suggested acidly.
Oliver gave a false chuckle that sounded awful even to his own ears, and decided that his files were close enough to organized for him to present.
"The Strategy and Planning Policies and Procedures of Riotfish, Inc.," he began woodenly, then sputtered to a stop, looking for the file with the bullet points. After a moment, he found it, and began again. "It is founded on three guiding principles: agility, surprise, and--" he paused again to shuffle files. "Agility. No! Flexibility. I hope today to demonstrate--" another pause, "the founding principles of-- no! The interaction of the founding principles to create a cohesive planning strategy, uh, that is, for the strategy-- strategic planning." Sweating, he found his thread in the correct file again.
Ah, there it was. He recognized this part of the presentation. A case of literary theft: this tale is not rightfully on Amazon; if you see it, report the violation.
"Planning for each operation," he continued, calming down a little, "is performed by the owner, David Fleer and myself as the Lead Strategist. Initial research and data gathering leads to a rough outline, as seen here."
Oliver smoothly slid a diagram across the table, and it stopped perfectly in front of Pearce.
"As you can see, we take all the data into our system, synthesizing and refining the information as the planning proceeds. Once we''ve agreed on a general approach, we finalize the plan, and submit it to each employee of Riotfish, Inc. to accept or reject. Per standard mercenary policy, all jobs are strictly voluntary, and refusal of a job does not affect any employee''s consideration for future jobs. Furthermore, we have a number of employee benefits in the event of a tragedy--"
"Lunch!" Little Timmy yelled, kicking the door open. Oliver gave a startled squeak.
Little Timmy threw a pan of food onto the projection table. It landed perfectly flat with a bang, and something sloshed out onto the table.
"Pizza," Little Timmy said. "Eat up."
Oliver fell silent at the interruption. He looked at Pearce, whose face had achieved a state of terminal disapproval, and thus was physically incapable of expressing displeasure any more intensely than it was right now.
Little Timmy wheeled and slammed the door on his way out. Oliver examined the pizza. Pale clumps and islands of half-melted cheese floated on a layer of steaming silty mush in a roundly bloated, seeping crust. The smell, while not explicitly unpleasant, was an offputting admixture of salty, musty, and sweet.
Oliver experimentally picked up a slice. Most of the toppings poured off of the floppy crust back into the pan, which was probably a blessing.
"Ah, yes well." Oliver looked at the food dubiously. "I don''t suppose it would do to reject his offering before trying it. Hm." In a fit of unwarranted optimism he said, "Well it''s pizza. How bad could it be?" and popped the whole slice into his mouth.
The short answer was... bad. So incredibly bad. It tasted like your grandmother''s sofa looked.
Trying not to make eye contact with Pearce while simultaneously trying not to make tongue contact with the food, Oliver bravely chewed the pizza apart enough that he could force it down. Eyes watering, veins standing out, he emptied his mouth with a mighty gulp.
Once clear, he gasped for air, and took a moment to compose himself.
"Well," he said. "That''s-- not as bad as I was expecting. Almost pleasant, in an, um, odd way. Um." He paused while the toxic aftertaste slowly faded. "Yes, we''re trying to encourage Little Timmy''s culinary endeavors. Mr. Pearce? Would you care for some?"
Pearce''s face was as still as the heat death of the universe.
"No. Thank you."
Trying to ignore the lingering aftertaste, Oliver picked back up where he''d left off in his presentation.
"Now Mr. Pearce, if I can draw your attention to these diagrams here, I can show you how we organize our staff in the field and logistically prepare for each contract."
Oliver nattered on in this vein for a while. He was in the midst of a particularly fascinating bit of organizational procedure, when his midsection interrupted the proceedings with an ominous gurgle.
"My apologies," Oliver said, his face paling.
"Are you all right?"
"I''m... fine?" Oliver gritted, shifting uncomfortably in his oversized chair. "I just need a moment."
"Mr. Gutshell, as interesting as this all is, I think I''d like to speak to Mr. Fleer. Crediture''s interest in Riotfish is primarily financial, and none of this is relevant if the financials aren''t healthy. Could I speak with him now, please?"
Oliver nodded tightly.
"Yes. I''ll take you to his office."
The sun lanced through the gaps of the blinds covering the sole window in Fleer''s office, stabbing his eyelid.
Blearily, he creaked that eye open, winced as the shaft of light pierced his vision, and lifted his head from his desk. A loose sheet of paper came up with him, stuck to his face.
He blinked, wondering briefly why he''d fallen asleep at his desk, then memory rushed back in.
He bolted upright, scanning through his spreadsheets in a panic. He didn''t feel great about them, but with a little verbal finesse, he was pretty sure he could talk his way around the sketchier areas of the books. It all depended on how much of a stickler this auditor Pearce was.
These auditors had a rep for being uptight and inflexible, but that was probably just an ugly sterotype.
It was probably fine.
He glanced at the clock. Eleven o''clock. No telling when the auditor would be by. He should probably check on what the rest of the Riotfish had managed last night.
He shuffled toward his office door, and was about to grab the knob when it knocked at him. A thin disapproving voice floated through.
"Mr. Fleer? I''m ready to look at the finances now."
A fresh rush of panic surged through him.
"Just a minute!" he called. He threw his jacket on, and attempted to flatten his hair with his hands. He didn''t have a mirror in his office, so he checked his reflection in his darkened monitor.
Even in the imperfect reflection he looked like he''d slept the night on his desk.
He scrubbed a hand through his hair, unable to disrupt it any further, and decided to just bull forward. He had the numbers, and he had his patter, who cared what he looked like?
He threw open the door to greet Pearce, who stood ramrod-straight and glared disapprovingly down at him through the bottoms of his spectacles.
"Mr. Pearce! I''m so pleased to have you here today."
Pearce recoiled slightly.
"I''m... sure," Pearce said. "David Fleer, I presume?"
"Yes, yes, that''s correct. Please, come on in. Have a seat."
Fleer ushered Pearce to one of the orange plastic chairs facing Fleer''s desk.
"Did you have a good trip in?"
"Right up until I arrived at your facility, yes. Can we get on with it?"
Fleer gave an uncertain grin.
"Ah, certainly. So Mr. Pearce, is there anything specifically you''d like to start with?"
"Let''s start at a high level, and calculate your firm''s debt service coverage ratio. We''ll validate the numbers as we go. I assume you have your net operating income available?"
"Of course, right here." Fleer pulled up some of his spreadsheets and began to go through them with Pearce.
They sifted through the numbers for fifteen minutes, with Pearce slowly relaxing as he fell into the routine of examining Fleer''s spreadsheets, picking apart the numbers, and making notes on his datapad. After a rocky start to the morning, he was finally in his wheelhouse.
The quiet chatter and tapping of the audit was interrupted by a heavy, primal groan that vibrated Fleer''s office. Fleer''s head came up.
"What was that?"
The two men waited a few seconds, listening intently, then went back to work.
The deep groan sounded again.
"Is everything all right, Mr. Fleer?"
"Maybe I''d better check on things. I think--"
A sudden, sharper groan interrupted him, laced through with an ominous rumbling. Fleer recognized the sound.
"Oh no." 17 - The Audit, Part 3: Washing Out
"Mr. Fleer? What''s happening?"
"Nothing! Nothing to worry about. Nothing at all. Let''s get back to work, shall we?"
"Are you quite sure?"
"Yep! Now, if you''ll look here at the revenues for last year--"
"AWWWWNNGG!"
Fleer smiled through his sudden flop sweat. The groaning had a distinctly Oliver-esque tinge. The rumbling grew in fits and starts.
Fleer was trying desperately not to think about it, but the main restroom shared a wall with the back of his office. It was an inconvenience he was used to, but it was not something he wanted to deal with right now.
The rumbling resolved itself in a horrifying cacophony, a rich waterfall of sound, a symphony of intestinal distress. Fleer tried to avoid Pearce''s shocked gaze as the sound rattled on, filling his office and the world.
There followed a frantic series of flushes. Both men, now firmly beyond any interest in the finances, stared in synchronous horror at the thin wall separating them from the restroom.
Silence reigned, and an insidious miasma crept into the office, a thick and impregnable odor, clinging to the senses like an old soda spill on a movie theater floor.
With watering eyes, trying to breathe as little as possible, Fleer turned back to the finances and made a sad little gesture to indicate that they should carry on.
A fresh bout of rumbling shook the office.
"I should go," Pearce said, standing.
"No, wait! Shouldn''t you finish the audit?" But Pearce had already fled the room.
Fleer caught up with Pearce outside the HQ, where he was standing on the sidewalk drinking in the sun and fresh air as though he had not experienced them in years.
"We''ll just give it a minute, shall we?" Fleer said.
Roger peeked around the corner of the warehouse and waved at Mr. Pearce.
"I think not. I''m leaving now. I''ll file the notice of default once I''m back at the office."
"Oh, Mr. Pearce, do you really think it''s fair--"
"I do not. I do not think it''s fair that my company should be beholden to the debts of--" here he waved his hands at the building-- "of what is clearly a failed, and I''m using the term very generously here, a failed business."
"But the finances..."
"Mr. Fleer, I have been doing this work for over thirty years, and I think I can recognize a snow job when I see one."
"Snow job! Snow job?" Fleer drew himself up. "Look here, Mr. Pearce, I can understand that our business may be a little light on revenue, and I''ll admit I tried to make the numbers as good as I could, but I have not falsified or omitted anything. We may not be up to your standards, but we are honest."
Pearce looked slightly mollified, and a little ashamed.
"Very well. I''ll admit that perhaps I spoke in a fit of pique. I apologize for the accusation. Nevertheless, your finances are simply not there, and moreover, your business is not there."
"But you didn''t look at last year''s revenue."
Pearce sighed.
"They wouldn''t matter. With your numbers the way they are, it wouldn''t matter if the previous five years had been solidly black. Your firm clings to solvency by the thinnest of threads, as does Crediture''s hope of repayment. You have no cogent business plan, no assets to speak of, and no budget for marketing nor any kind of plan for bringing in new clients. Furthermore, I did some research beforehand, and I''ve discovered that your mercenary outfit has no insurance, no licensing, no legal protection of any kind. As far as I could find, you don''t even have a Mercenary''s Guild membership. If any crisis were to arise, your business would simply... evaporate."
Pearce''s words hit Fleer like one gut-punch after another, until he visibly sagged. Pearce''s tone softened.
"I''m sorry to say, Mr. Fleer, that in the interests of my employer, I must declare your debts to Crediture to be in default." Stolen from Royal Road, this story should be reported if encountered on Amazon.
"But... what are we supposed to do? How can we fix this?"
"I''m afraid that, in your current state, the best you can hope for is to declare bankruptcy, although I suspect the arbiter will only allow you to shut down your business and sell off your assets."
"I can''t, I mean, look. We can pay this money back! You can''t put us in default!"
Pearce shook his head.
"I''m not putting you in default, I''m simply recognizing the fact. Your payments over the history of these loans have been incredibly spotty, and you have made no payments in over 270 days. Only the fact that we were transitioning during the acquisition of Lessy Holdings gave you as much time as you had."
Mentally shaking himself, Fleer tried another tack.
"Look, I''ve got myself on the line and my guys on the line here. I know we can pay this back. We just need a little time. What can we do?"
"It''s very simple. You either need to radically change your business outlook, drastically modify your debt profile, or pay back the amount of all the loans in full. 510,000 credits."
The hammerblow of that monstrous number silenced Fleer. His veneer of bustle abandoned him, and he sank in on himself, sagging in every feature.
How had they fallen so deep in debt? When he''d bought Riotfish, it was, he fully admitted to himself, done without full consideration of their business outlook. They''d always been in a hole, but he''d spent so much time and energy just making day-to-day expenses that he''d never had the chance to focus on their debts. And now he never would.
He opened his mouth to speak, to cajole, to convince, but his flow had dried up. His words were gone, he was empty, and all he had was need.
He needed the Riotfish.
"Please," he said quietly, staring at the ground. "Is there anything you can do for us?"
Tired, exasperated, and a little softhearted, Pearce relented.
"Fine. It''s near the end of the fiscal year, and I don''t have time to deal with another default right now. I won''t file this for--" he spun through something on his datapad-- "six and a half more weeks. That gives you until the end of September."
Fleer tried, he really did, but he could not bring himself to thank Pearce.
"I tell you this in kindness," Pearce said, "the smart play is bankruptcy. In thirty years, I''ve never seen a business with your financial outlook survive longer than six months."
"I understand," Fleer said in a small, defeated voice.
"It''s best to take this time to get your papers in order. It will make things smoother for the bankruptcy mediator, and he may go a little easier on you."
Fleer nodded numbly.
Pearce nodded in return, stepped into his sensible gravcar, and hummed off.
Fleer stood on the sidewalk and fumed as his numbness gave way to anger.
He''d tried so hard. He''d supported his guys. He had done all the things nobody had ever done for him.
He had been the better person. Been the good guy. He''d fought and struggled and scraped and he needed this. He needed this and it wasn''t fair.
His temperature rising, Fleer went inside and whirled furiously through the rec room, yelling "We''re done!" on his way through. He stormed into his office and slammed the door.
The Riotfish stood in a loose group in the rec room in various states of chagrin, shock, anger, and gentle lunacy.
"I''ll speak with him," Oliver said.
He tapped on Fleer''s door, and after a minute with no response, he let himself in.
Oliver walked over and stood in front of Fleer''s desk, stone-faced and silent, with his arms crossed.
Fleer ignored him for a long minute, scrolling blindly around on his desktop, his temper rising.
"What?" he snapped, finally.
Oliver glared.
"I want you to talk to me."
"I talked. We''re done. There, I said it again."
"No, talk to me, David. I need more than that. What''s the rest of the story?"
"What ''rest of the story''? There is no more story. No more Riotfish. We''re done. Kaput. It''s over."
"And?"
"And what? We''re finished! Unless you happen to know some way we can find a half a million credits in the next six weeks, I suggest you start packing your things."
Oliver didn''t flinch.
"And how do you plan to resolve this? What are you going to do?"
"Figure out how to not get my throat slit when Crediture forces us into bankruptcy here in six weeks, Oliver. Is that good enough for you, Oliver? Does that meet with your approval?"
"So you''re going to relinquish us, then? Give us up?"
"THIS IS NOT GIVING UP!" Fleer roared, slamming to his feet. "THIS IS DEFEAT!"
Oliver, unmoved, stared down his heaving boss.
"And what about Mrs. Meade?" he asked softly.
Unwanted tears suddenly rushed to his eyes. Fleer refused to let them spill. He struggled in silence for a bit.
"We can... figure something out for Mrs. Meade. A stipend, or--
"A home?" Oliver''s expression stayed flat.
"No! No. But we''ll--"
"And what about Roger?"
"Roger comes with me," Fleer whipped back. "That is non-negotiable, full stop."
"And what about me?" Oliver asked quietly. "Should I just take myself back to the docks, then? Forget everything I''ve learned and just start moving heavy things around again?"
Emotionally spent, Fleer collapsed into his chair.
"No," he replied in a small voice. "No."
"David, let us help you. Give us some guidance, but we all want to help."
"Oliver, that''s more money than Riotfish makes in a year. There''s just no way."
"This is our home. We tried to help, and I''m sorry, but we made a real mess of things. Tell us how we can fix it."
"No, no," Fleer said, scrubbing his hands through his hair. "You guys didn''t screw it up. I did. I didn''t make it clear what everybody needed to do. I should have been the one to fix this. It''s my fault."
"What can we do?"
"I''ve just got to find us some work. If I can drum up some clients-- well, it might be something more dangerous than we''re used to."
"I can''t speak for everyone, but I think we''re all on board. Whatever it takes."
Fleer nodded.
"Give me some time to see what I can come up with," he said. 18 - A Glimmer of Hope, If You Can Ignore All the Red Flags
Five days.
Five days of nothing.
Five days of scraping through the Guild''s jobs board, looking for anything even remotely profitable, and nothing.
Five days closer to Stewart Pearce and his stupid glasses and his stupid gravcar and his stupid datapad and his stupid default. Five days less to earn an astronomical sum of money.
Fleer had even gone through and set up a spreadsheet to tell him what they''d have to earn every day to make the deadline. The answer wasn''t pretty, and it got uglier every day that he spent floundering around looking for work.
He''d even tried some cold calling, but he knew that wasn''t his strongest sales tactic, and people didn''t really hire mercenary work from a call. It was all about the connections, and he just didn''t have any anymore.
With scant hope, he pulled the jobs board open again. Clicked on all the filters again. Opened the near-empty list again-- wait, hold on.
The floodgates had opened, and a river of jobs was available.
With slowly building hope, he clicked through a few, setting them aside to sift through. The jobs weren''t amazing, not nearly what they needed, but it was something.
He started juggling timelines in his head. If he split the team, he could send part of the crew on this job, the rest on that job, then in between that and a third job, they could fill in with guard work at this company. It wasn''t enough to catch up to their debt, but they could be earning while Fleer worked on landing a big job, a whammy that would set them up to clear their debt and free them from Pearce.
The sudden rush of work was a wonderment to him, but he wasn''t complaining. His crumbled heart began to hope again. There was work here, and he believed that if they could work, they could win.
He fired off a proposal to a client, and pulled up the next. This was a new and wonderful problem to have, having too many jobs to work! He sent off another proposal.
He was working on a third proposal when a message popped up. It notified him that his first proposal had been flagged. Hmm.
Whatever. There were lots of jobs here. He fired off the third proposal and started on a fourth.
Another message popped up. The second proposal had been flagged as well.
Fleer frowned. He shouldn''t be getting flagged this much. He clicked in to see what was going on.
"Your proposal has been flagged," the message stated, "and will not be delivered to the client. Your proposal was flagged for the following requirements: GUILD ASSOCIATION REQUIRED
Please only submit proposals that meet the client''s guidelines. Repeated flagging may result in a temporary suspension of your account."
Puzzled, he moved back through the interface to check his company data. Company Name: Riotfish, Inc. Class: E - Small Operations (Various) Guild Membership Status: Applied Guild Sponsor: UNSPONSORED
Yep, just like it had been for ages. Frowning, he went back to the jobs board. There were the jobs, there were his filters-- oh.
In the mass of filters he''d applied, he''d missed selecting "NO GUILD ASSOCIATION". He clicked it, and the sea of jobs evaporated, along with his mood.
With a grimace, he carefully deleted the fourth proposal. He didn''t need a suspension. Not now.
He slammed a palm down on the desk, forcing out a sharp sigh. No work.
He checked all the open jobs boards with the correct filters applied. Nothing. And nothing. And a lot more nothing. Rearrange the search filters, and like magic, more nothing appeared.
No work, no money. No money, and in six weeks, Riotfish, Inc. would be no more. No more Riotfish, and the fig leaf of legal protection he had would evaporate.
After his debacle at his former employer, AtaVision Inc., he''d managed to sneak in a tiny, null-op contract with them through Riotfish. This kept them from exercising any kind of retribution against him. While it was not technically illegal to carry out retribution against someone you had an active contract with, it was considered poor form. Any self-respecting corporation paid excruciatingly close attention to form, in eye-watering detail.
But with no Riotfish, that contract would vanish, and AtaVision would be free to pursue him for back damages.
Unfortunately, "back damages" for a failed corporate assassin meant a lot more than just money and paperwork. They''d want to send a message. A warning for others. Fleer wouldn''t get a warning-- he would be the warning.
And the crew. It was entirely possible that they''d enact retribution on the rest of the Riotfish as well. Something messy, colorful, shocking.
After all, he was the only Class A corporate assassin who''d ever walked off of an assignment and lived to tell about it.
They needed something, and they needed something now.
He scrubbed his hair as he tried to come up with some options.This narrative has been unlawfully taken from Royal Road. If you see it on Amazon, please report it.
One option he idly considered in passing-- not for the first time-- was to fire everybody and hire real soldiers. Problem was, real soldiers wanted real money. And stability. And probably a bunch of perks that the Riotfish could in no way afford. So he had to stick with the crew he was stuck with.
Could he send the Riotfish out to do a little banditry? He shook his head. Besides being grossly immoral and incredibly dangerous, bandit work was, if anything, the only venture less profitable than mercenary work. He''d checked.
Spec work, maybe?
Fleer lifted his eyes and glanced at the spec jobs board. Speculative work-- those were jobs with no guarantee of payment, jobs that companies would farm out to know-nothings with big dreams and minimal experience. Only fools and the desperate went in for spec work.
Well, that was him, two for two. He clicked in.
All of these jobs were laughably bad. High-security break-ins, dicey extractions from fortified territory, front-line penetration teams for poorly-planned operations... the only thing they all had in common was that the money was in no way commensurate with the risk.
Desperate. Right. The Riotfish were bad enough screwups, he couldn''t send them into these. Every one of these jobs was an absolute deathtrap.
He spun through the options, scanning the titles, when a name caught his eye. He clicked in. Job Type: Acquisition of Person(s) Person(s) of Interest: Thaddeus Adler Nominal Value of Contract: 90,000 Credits
Fleer stared at the name. A strange sensation tugged at the corners of his mouth, forcing an expression onto his face that he hadn''t felt in nearly a week. A small grin appeared.
He scanned the dense block of text outlining the particulars. His grin slowly grew.
He didn''t know him, but he knew of him. And, importantly, he knew a project that Adler had worked on some years ago.
For once, his background as a corporate assassin was going to be a benefit rather than an albatross around his neck.
And the best part? He wouldn''t even have to involve the crew.
The next morning, Fleer and Oliver sat in the war room discussing the job.
Fleer flung a photo from his portable datapad onto the projector table. A young, trim, and extremely clean-cut businessman grinned saucily up at them from the table, with the legend "Thaddeus Adler". He had golden curly hair, blue eyes, and sharp dimples.
"That''s our man. I walk away with him, and there''s a fat 90,000 credit finder''s fee."
He flicked his fingers again. A building blueprint slid onto the projector table.
"He works for Matters, Inc. and spends most of his time in their HQ. They''re located in the Hayworth building, deep in Corper territory. Floor 18. Here''s his office," Fleer said, straightening the blueprint and pointing at a corner of the building.
He flicked again, and the operation summary glided onto the table. Oliver spent a few minutes poring over the document.
"This looks tricky. I''m not sure how we can extract an executive from his office building in the middle of the day," Oliver said.
"I''ll be discreet," replied Fleer. "I''ll make an appointment, go in and talk to him, see if I can''t persuade him to come with me quietly."
"You''ll be discreet? David, are you thinking of doing this by yourself?"
"This is a one-man operation. I don''t need the rest of you there."
Oliver winced a little.
"David, I know we haven''t... performed to expectations lately, but this man''s a C-level executive. If you upset him, he''s not just going to ask you to leave."
"I know what I''m doing, Oliver. This mission is straightforward, and it will give us a solid start on what we owe."
"That''s another point of concern I have-- why so much? Where is all this money coming from? He''s not difficult to find. I''m sure he''s made some people angry, but 90,000 credits angry?"
"Who knows? A salty ex-wife? Some political shenanigans? Who cares? It''s 90,000 credits, Oliver!"
"That''s a very, very salty ex-wife, or there are some heavy hitters in the mix."
"Well, he''s high profile for one thing," Fleer replied. "That''s going to boost the fee. For another thing, the contract strongly stipulates that he''s not to be harmed in any way. Coddled, almost. My guess is hostage. Maybe for ransom, maybe to force some kind of deal with Matters, Inc. No telling, but we''ll need to handle him gently. That''s why I want to be able to extract him quietly and easily."
Oliver frowned.
"Forthrightly, this contract raises a number of red flags for me. I wish I knew who had it out, and what they wanted him for."
"The payment''s already in an anonymized escrow account. I checked that first. Everything''s legit. Here''s the holdings validation and key." More documents slid onto the table. "Here''s the approval form for the contract. Just sign off and I''ll be ready to go."
Oliver pored over the documents, slowly shaking his head. Fleer sat impatiently, arms crossed, tapping his foot.
"David, I just can''t approve this. The risk to you is too great."
"I wasn''t asking for your approval. Just sign it."
Oliver drew himself to his full height, lifting his head out of the glow of the projection table and into dimness.
"The organizing documents and bylaws of Riotfish," he boomed, "clearly state that every mission must be approved and accepted by both the owner and the lead strategist in order for Riotfish, as an organization, to work it. Both of us, David. Or are you making yourself the lead strategist now?"
"No, no, nothing like that. I''m sorry, Oliver, I didn''t mean it that way, I''m sorry. We just really need this job. I can do this, I promise you."
Oliver calmed a little.
"Look," Fleer continued, "if it helps, everybody can come along for backup. Here, there''s a parking garage across the street, perfect staging area. Most likely you guys will be bored for an hour or two, and then we''ll all go home."
"Perhaps. But what are you going to do? How are you going to acquire him?"
"I have some leverage. From the old days."
"Anything you feel like sharing?"
"Not really; it''s just old corporate projects. Stuff he was involved in."
"Wait, you''re going to blackmail him into his own kidnapping? What kinds of projects were these?"
Fleer reflected for a moment, withdrawing.
"Bad ones." He paused, his voice growing more distant. "The kinds of projects that make you question yourself. Question your whole career and everything you''ve ever done. The kinds of projects you don''t want anybody else finding out about, ever."
Oliver gave him a moment to come back to himself before responding.
"Right, well, let''s, uh, establish a plan in case we need to come in and extract you. The eighteenth floor is going to be difficult to infiltrate."
"Look, I appreciate that you want to be thorough, but it''s an office building, not a fortress. They might have a couple lightly armed security on staff, but I wouldn''t bet on it. I''ll be fine. And the fee could put us back on track. I mean, this would be a huge chunk out of our debt!"
Oliver settled back with a worried frown, fists still on the table.
"Oliver, please." Fleer reached across the table, laying his hand on Oliver''s giant brown fist. "I can make this happen. We don''t have anything else right now."
Oliver looked at Fleer, then at the contract glowing on the table.
Reluctantly, he leaned forward and signed it with his private key. Fleer heaved a sigh of relief.
"Thank you, Oliver. Trust me, this is going to be cake. If it makes you feel better, I''ll even bring a panic button with me. If things go sideways, I''ll call in the cavalry. Deal?"
"Agreed," Oliver replied. But the worried expression never left his face. 19 - The Adler Acquisition, Part 1: What Could Go Wrong?
Fleer straightened his tie as the elegant, slim brass and glass elevator rose steadily through the atrium. The atrium soared all eighteen stories of the building, and the south wall was glass, tinted to keep out the sun. The atrium was a hundred yards across, with a huge marble fountain at one end, and a lush forest of carefully manicured trees at the other. Classical statuary was liberally placed throughout, positioned with tasteful artistry.
Two free-standing elevator columns were carefully oriented to grant the rider a view through the giant wall-window. Glass wrapped the elevator car, which traveled up and down on slender steel supports that stretched the height of the elevator. Glass panels surrounded each column, mounted with brass furniture, the entirety of the structure gleaming and glorious.
As the elevator rose, the rider was literally lifted above the city, looking out to the south over the gleaming skyscrapers and buildings of the Corporate District. With the careful application of blurred vision and a healthy dose of imagination, one could imagine they were flying.
Fleer cleared his throat, and glanced discreetly at his tag-along. He hadn''t expected the escort. It made sense, he supposed, but he hadn''t expected it, and that rattled him a little. Perhaps Adler was slightly more paranoid than he had calculated. His escort was clearly armed, and the thorough frisking he''d received on entering the Hayworth building proved that Fleer was clearly not.
He gently brushed his hand against the panic button hidden in his sleeve in the guise of adjusting his cuffs, making sure it was still secure. Straightening his suit jacket, he subtly ran his palm over his breast pocket, where he''d stashed a small datasink hidden in the body of an ink pen. It was a handy device for grabbing a lot of data in a hurry.
He might find an opportunity to grab some data while he was on-site, but he couldn''t allow himself to be distracted. Get in. Sweet-talk Adler out to the Battle Wagon. Collect the credits. That''s all he needed to do.
An understated ding, and the elevator opened out onto a gracefully architected suspension walkway, spanning the distance from the elevator column to the hallway leading to the offices. If one were so inclined, one could look out over the railing, straight down all eighteen floors to the atrium.
They stepped out of the elevator, Fleer deliberately slowing his walk to fall in behind the escort. He couldn''t give away that he already knew where Adler''s office was.
The escort led him across the walkway, down a broad hall, and wound through some carefully decorated offices where quiet people worked, to the corner of the building. The hallway there widened somewhat, with a large door in the corner, set at a 45-degree angle to the other walls. "Thaddeus Adler" was enamelled in black on a golden plaque on the door.
The escort opened the door slowly and motioned him in. Nervously adjusting his cuffs again, Fleer complied.
The door led into a rich office, heavily done in dark wood and darker leather. The two walls flanking the entrance angled outward, making the office an oddly-shaped five-sided room. The walls near the door were covered with floor-to-ceiling bookshelves, holding rows upon rows of somber tomes, with titles tastefully printed in gold leaf. The two walls to either side bore custom-crafted shelves holding a variety of art pieces, memorabilia, and knick-knacks made of rare and expensive materials.
The wall behind Adler''s desk was a single massive sheet of glass showing the city skyline. In the distance, Fleer could see the smoky, dingy edges of the industrial district, where the Riotfish HQ lay.
The desk itself was a marvel of craftsmanship, broader and deeper than any six people could make use of, polished to a mirror gloss, with delicately interlocking patterns picked out by the grain of the wood and perfectly executed construction. It was large enough for a restrained round of field hockey, but it was the type of desk that demanded that nothing so crass as work could possibly happen on it.
Fleer kept his business-professional smile fixed in place as he took in the room-- even when he saw the small gold-and-silver statuette shaped like a strand of genetic material wrapped around a molecule.
He recognized it, of course. He used to have one just like it.
Adler sat behind the desk, wearing the same saucy grin he''d worn in the photo.
The door swung ponderously shut behind him, sealing with a quiet click.
"Fleer, good to meet you," Adler said, standing and coming around the desk. He grasped Fleer''s hand in a profoundly insincere handshake and waved him toward one of the seats in front of the desk.The genuine version of this novel can be found on another site. Support the author by reading it there.
Fleer''s smile waned as he took in the other inhabitants of the sumptuous office. Two security guards stood in the wide-angled corners behind him, dressed in suits that were tailored with eye-watering perfection. They wore sunglasses and earbuds and absolutely expressionless expressions.
"Thank you for having me, Adler," Fleer said as he settled slowly into his seat. "No problem, no problem at all. Would you like some coffee? A water perhaps?"
"No, nothing, thank you. I was actually hoping we could discuss a little business. Uh, privately."
Adler barked a little laugh and waved at his security personnel, who quietly filed out of the office.
"Certainly. Can''t be too safe, right? And having them on hand is handy in negotiations." Adler grinned. "But we''re not negotiating yet."
Fleer cleared his throat and mentally shook himself. Just another business meeting. Keep it calm, light. The cameras should be muted, out of respect for Adler''s business privacy, but Fleer needed to make sure everything looked normal.
And it''s not as if he''d never met with a high-powered business executive. After all, he used to be one.
"Well, Adler, I''ll get right to the point. I''ve come across some information I thought you might be interested in. I''d like to propose something of an exchange."
"Do tell," Adler said, his grin widening predatorily.
Fleer cleared his throat.
"I understand that you used to work over the R&D division of Rigenic. It''s my understanding that you spearheaded Project Icarus?"
Adler''s smile became glassy. Fleer could see the wheels turning in Adler''s head as a few things dropped into place.
"Fleer. David Fleer. You''re that Fleer."
Fleer nodded slightly, clearing his throat again. Adler barked another short laugh.
"I have to say, you certainly have brass," he said, standing. He turned his back on Fleer and looked out the window that stretched across the back wall of his office. The view over the city was breathtaking.
"Of course, I thought the way you were treated over the whole matter was disgraceful. The newsfeeds were certainly uncomplimentary enough, but the scuttlebutt was downright vicious. It was probably for the best that you didn''t get to hear much of it." Adler turned slightly, making his predatory grin visible on the edges of his face.
"It was certainly a time of learning and growing," Fleer said. "I learned many things, and trying times can often open new opportunities."
Adler looked back out over the city.
"Yes. Well, I don''t suppose it was easy. One wonders how you''ve been keeping yourself. Things are certainly going well for most of us. I hope you''ve found a new path forward. The rest of us have."
"That''s good to hear, Adler. One of the things I learned is how very quickly things can change when new information comes to light. Information about projects you''ve worked on. Things you''ve done."
Adler was silent for a moment.
"Perception is reality, if enough people believe it," Adler said quietly.
"And information is power, for those who control it," Fleer said.
Adler turned stiffly on his heel, a seething pot under tight control. The semblance of the grin was still there, a bare structure on which mirth or joy could hang, but there was nothing like happiness in his expression now.
"What is it you want, Fleer? You can''t get into the C-suite, you must know that."
"Perhaps we could discuss it elsewhere. Quietly."
Adler''s eyes bulged. Fleer could see the calculations forming in his head. Numbers, events, people, and money spun behind those eyes. Cold calculation spidered across his expression as he struggled to make sense of things.
Then the penny dropped.
Adler brayed a long, genuine, unlovely laugh, and collapsed in his chair.
"You, you, you''re after the mark on me?" Adler forced out between guffaws.
"You know about it?" Fleer asked, shocked.
"Know about it?" Adler cackled. "I set it!" And he burst into fresh peals of laughter.
"I don''t think I understand," Fleer said carefully.
"Look at you! Sitting there all somber and important, grubbing after some throwaway money for mercenaries! And I thought you were serious! Are you a mercenary now David? Are you a hired gun?"
After his laughter trailed off into a fit of giggles, Adler relaxed back in his chair.
"I have that contract set up on a perpetual basis to test our defenses. It lets my security guys chew up cheap mercs, keeps them alert. You''re the first one to waltz right in and try to blackmail me out of here. Like I said, you have brass." Adler shook his head. "And to think, you''re reduced to using... that project for simple blackmail. I feel so sorry for you I''m tempted to just give you the money."
Fleer stiffened.
"So you have a contract out that''s not genuine? A merc trap? I wonder what the Mercenary''s Guild would think of that?"
Adler''s laughter dried up immediately.
"They won''t think of that. It''s clear how sharp you were, but Fleer, if you want to be a high roller, you''ve got to have something to stake." Adler waved at the cameras.
Suitmen filed back into the room. Two, four, half a dozen. Fleer began surreptitiously squeezing the panic button.
"Boys, Mr. Fleer has been carrying tales. Find him a suitable audience down in Processing. And let''s go ahead and evac, put the building on lockdown in the unlikely event he has some friends."
Two suitmen lifted Fleer to his feet.
"Are you sure this is the path you want to go down, Adler? It''s liable to get messy."
"Fleer, the only mess here is you. And it will be cleaned up shortly."
Adler waved dismissively toward the door and turned back to the window. 20 - The Adler Acquisition, Part 2 - Id Vote for Batman, Myself
D''khara and Oliver stared each other down in the back of the Battle Wagon, gazes snapping sparks. Tensions were high.
"That is purest nonsense!" Oliver roared. "It''s not only unlikely but entirely improbable!"
"I''m telling you," D''khara said, slapping the back of his hand into his open palm, "Batman could absolutely beat Aquaman. He just hasn''t needed to."
"But Aquaman has the entire ocean at his disposal. In a worst case scenario, he could retreat to the safety of the Marianas trench where Batman can''t even get to him."
The crew were crowded in the Battle Wagon, on the third floor of a parking garage across the street from the Hayworth building. Mrs. Meade had driven around for ten solid minutes looking for a parking spot closer to ground level, but this was as close as she could get.
They had to stay in the Battle Wagon. A dwarf, an orc, and a dipso in the Corporate District would draw a whole lot of attention, to say nothing of Little Timmy, who would draw attention anywhere.
Oliver and D''khara were arguing while Roger and Little Timmy played cards. It was neither clear nor particularly relevant what the exact card game was, since it was mostly Roger hissing at his cards, and Little Timmy patting one of his guns when he got a bad hand.
"Okay, first off," D''khara spat, "even Aquaman couldn''t deal with the pressure in the Marianas Trench, and second of all, Batman would still find him."
"But how? He''s got 335 million square kilometers of open ocean to search, and that doesn''t account for depth and caves and so forth. How''s he going to find Aquaman in all that?"
"Tracker. He already knows where Aquaman hangs out. He''s been tracking him since day one. All of the Justice League. He knows that with that much power, someday he might have to step in and stop them."
Oliver scoffed.
"Ridiculous! How would he even-- hey, how long has that light been blinking?"
All eyes swiveled to the dash, where a red light was blinking rapidly. They all stared at it for a moment.
"What is it?" D''khara asked.
"It''s the panic button. David must have pressed it."
They stared at it as it winked in the dimness of the Battle Wagon.
"Is Fleer in trouble then?"
Oliver looked worried.
"I don''t know. Maybe he pressed it by accident? He hasn''t been in there that long."
"What''s the plan?" D''khara asked.
"Plan? I-- we, uh, didn''t discuss it that far."
"Didn''t discuss--! Well how do we get him out? Where is he?"
"Um, eighteenth floor, I think? I assume he''s still in or around Adler''s office. I didn''t think of planting a tracker on him." Oliver was starting to panic. "But what if he''s moved elsewhere? What if he hit it by accident? I don''t want to mess up his negotiations! Perhaps we should wait a few minutes, I have the blueprints here somewhere..."
D''khara snorted, racking a fresh drum mag into his shotgun.
"All I know is that he hit the button. I''ll mess up his negotiations. You can come if you want."
So saying, he threw open the back doors of the Battle Wagon.
"Keep it running, Mrs. Meade," he called. "We might need to bail out in a hurry."
"Be careful now, boys," she replied, waving distractedly in the general direction of the departing dwarf.
"I knew it," Oliver moaned. "I knew this would be a disaster!"
Oliver, Little Timmy and Roger scrambled into their gear and out of the Battle Wagon. They clattered down the concrete stairs of the parking garage after D''khara, who moved with relentless determination now that he had something to do.
D''khara''s hobnail boots threw sparks as he jumped the last few steps and hit the ground floor. The four of them made an eye-catching crew.The narrative has been taken without authorization; if you see it on Amazon, report the incident.
Oliver peered at the silvered glass of the majestic building across the street.
"Okay," Oliver explained quickly, "there are two main stairwells, and two elevators, both accessible from the atrium. Elevators will be the fastest way up; stairs will be the safest way down."
D''khara nodded shortly.
"Fine. Oliver, you and I can take the elevators up to eighteen, and work our way down. Roger and Little Timmy, you guys secure the stairwells, keep our exit clear. Rescue the boss if you see him first."
"Yeah," Little Timmy said. "Let''s teach these guys! Like, their mistakes. Of messing with Riotfish, is what I mean."
They approached the front doors of the building, watching their reflections marching toward them. The Hayworth building boasted two massive powered rotating doors, flanked by smaller, more traditional doors, all in the same silvered glass, making the building both beautiful and hard to see into.
The Riotfish spread out as they approached, striding firmly, guns in hand. This was no social call.
"Fleer didn''t think they''d have much in the way of security," Oliver said, "so we may not even need to, um, um, oh."
As they entered the shadow of the building, mere yards from the door, they faltered. The powered doors were not rotating. The swinging doors were not propped open. The atrium was not empty.
Once they were in shadow, they were finally able to see clearly through the glass of the front wall. They were able to admire the marble and brass interior, the abundance of art, the delicate fountain, and the array of gunmen.
A line of black-suited guards stood behind the glass, their pistols trained on the approaching Riotfish.
The Riotfish slowed and stopped, D''khara and Oliver in the center, flanked by Roger and Little Timmy.
"That''s what I get for thinking my bad luck had abandoned me for one stinking minute," D''khara growled.
"Do you think they''d let us just walk on back to the Battle Wagon?" Oliver asked.
D''khara glared at him.
"Fleer''s in there, and this reception tells me that he needs us."
Oliver frowned.
"Right. Right. That''s absolutely right. Let''s go get him."
Oliver had grabbed his weapon kit, which was effectively a backpack made of cargo netting. It was a jumble of weapons and crates. He unslung the kit and drew out his Zentech cannon.
The Zentech cannon had been built in an era when the synthetic look was in. The whole exterior was wrapped in ruggedized fiberglass of a bland putty color with a pebbled texture. The barrel was thick, four inches in diameter but with a one-inch bore, three feet long, and fluted, with a tapering tip. The breech terminated in a thick block of machinery that housed the action. A crude carrying handle protruded from the top of the action, and a hand-carved wooden grip jutted from the rear, with the trigger.
It had originally been mounted on a tank, and it fired thumb-thick rounds with plastic explosive shaped-charge warheads, designed to knock holes in other tanks.
Oliver swung it around with ease. The gunmen inside quickly calculated the firepower disparity and, to a man, scrambled for cover.
"Knock knock," Oliver whispered, and started pulling the trigger.
The first two explosions took out the rotating doors in a grand splash of twisted brass and a million shards of gleaming glass. The next two shattered the glass walls and the supports between them. The remaining rounds in the magazine impacted random places in the atrium, blowing apart statuary, the fountain, the entry desk, and no small number of gunmen. After all, this was a rescue, not a reception for the Ammunition Conservationist of the Year award.
The popping of the guard''s pistols as they returned fire sounded like popcorn after the throaty roar of Oliver''s Zentech cannon.
Oliver, having spent his ammo, stepped back. Roger skittered in through the ragged opening in the building and began flinging grenades with unrestrained glee. He had an unnatural ability to keep up with which grenades had been thrown where, and how much time each fuse had left to burn. He whirled through the giant room, hurling explosives, giggling and dancing amid the chaos.
"We need cover!" yelled one gunman.
"Where?" yelled another. "Whatever that thing is, it''s all over the place!"
The guards tried to defend themselves, but there was no predicting where Roger would go. He cackled and flapped his arms and sometimes a grenade would fly out. There was no safe place.
One unfortunate guard caught a heavy grenade to the temple and dropped unconscious. It was perhaps a blessing that he wasn''t aware when the grenade went off.
A few guards tried to shoot at Roger, but it was hopeless-- he whirled, skittered and spun, an untouchable kaleidoscope of explosives and insanity.
With a wicked giggle, Roger winged one final grenade with shocking accuracy into a narrow gap between the reception desk and the wall, briefly surprising the three guards who had hunkered down there.
With his ordnance spent, Roger drew back, doing a surprisingly competent pirouette along the way. D''khara and Little Timmy swept in, cleaning up what forces remained, D''khara on the right laying out paths of destruction with short, controlled bursts, and Little Timmy on the left, shrieking and spraying bullets from both fists. It was hard to tell whether the guns or Little Timmy''s screeching was louder.
Bodies tumbled and tossed like rag dolls. Guards tried to displace, fall back, develop some sort of coherent defense, but the Riotfish left no room for tactics, only reaction.
D''khara and Little Timmy made their way through what remained of the security forces. The black-suited guards briefly rallied, firing at the fast-moving Riotfish. They tried to hold their position, to no avail. All they had were slim handguns which were simply overwhelmed by the power and range of D''khara''s shotgun, and which were not nearly as terrifying as whatever it was Little Timmy was doing.
The few remaining guards broke and ran.
D''khara and Little Timmy shared a high five, which connected after only three tries.
"I''m not sure I quite believe that we did that," Oliver said breathlessly. "Did we just do that?"
The atrium was a ragged mess. Several of the heavy planters had been exploded, splashing their topsoil across the rich marble floors. An information kiosk was tumbled over, shredded nearly beyond recognition by a grenade. Few of the statues had remained in one piece, and all of them were pock-marked with bullet strikes. Bodies lay strewn about, leaking unpleasantly.
The ruined atrium didn''t offer Oliver any cogent counter-arguments. 21 - The Adler Acquisition, Part 3 - Acquiring Adler
Shaking himself, Oliver switched back to planning mode. "Now, Roger and Little Timmy, this is our only exit. D''khara and I are going to fetch David, and it is vital that this exit remains open for us. We''ll return shortly."
The two nodded in understanding. Oliver and D''khara headed for the elevators.
D''khara pressed the up button on the elevator. They waited.
"That Zentech cannon works pretty well," D''khara said.
"It does," Oliver replied. "Although I''d like to procure a heavy machine gun one of these days."
"Oh?"
"Yes. I''ve spoken with David about it, but it''s just not in the budget right now."
"I gotcha. You have one in mind?"
"Not especially. Just something that can output a high volume of covering fire. That would be tactically beneficial in some situations."
"Oh, okay."
They waited some more.
"It wouldn''t even be a fight," D''khara said.
"What''s that now?" Oliver asked.
"Batman and Aquaman. Not even close to a fair fight once Batman found him."
"That''s utterly preposterous. Aquaman''s ability to control marine life would have Batman fighting half the ocean before he was able to come near him."
"Nope, Batman would lure him out of the ocean. Nullify his strengths."
"What could he even do to Aquaman? He''s basically bulletproof."
"He''d figure something out. Batman''s smart and ruthless."
"I find that unlikely." Oliver replied, and fell silent.
They were quiet for another moment.
"Sure is taking a long time," D''khara said.
"I wonder if we shouldn''t take the stairs?"
"We could try the other elevator. I don''t know that we want to climb eighteen flights of stairs."
"Good point."
They waited, growing antsier by the moment.
"Perhaps it was damaged in the shooting," Oliver suggested.
"I''m sure it''s fine. Look, here it comes now."
The elevator car descended toward the Riotfish with stately slowness. It reached the first floor, slowed even further, and gently bumped to a stop at the bottom. The car sat motionless for a long moment, then rang out a loud "ding!" The glass doors finally opened.
D''khara stepped into the elevator, and Oliver tried to follow, but the elevator car had clearly not been designed for orc access. He tried to hunch over and scoot in, but he was too broad to fit through the doors. He turned and angled his upper body to fit in, accidentally elbowing D''khara in the face as he did so.
"Sorry, sorry," muttered Oliver.
"No worries," D''khara scowled, rubbing his nose.
The elevator dinged again, and the doors tried to close, bouncing softly off Oliver''s bulk.
"Maybe you''d better go in first," D''khara suggested.
"Right, maybe so."
Oliver backed out of the elevator, pressing one hand against the doors to prevent them from closing. D''khara stepped out and stood watching as Oliver wrangled himself into the small, tasteful glass and brass elevator car. He ended up plastered against two walls, hunched and squeezed and incredibly uncomfortable.
D''khara stepped into the elevator and pressed "18". The elevator''s motors, so quiet on the way down, now whined as they struggled to raise the load in the car. After a couple tense moments, the motors overcame inertia, and the elevator began to rise, with the underpowered elevator hiccuping from time to time, just to keep things interesting.
As Oliver and D''khara began the slow ride up to eighteen, Roger and Little Timmy positioned themselves to cover all the main exits to the atrium. There were countless doors and halls leading out, but the front doors were where reinforcements would arrive from outside. The stairs were probably where reinforcements would arrive from inside.
Oliver and D''khara disappeared upward, and it took fully thirty seconds for Little Timmy to decide that he was bored. Roger, of course, was rarely ever bored, since the strange film that played in his head and colored his perception of the world was more diverting than whatever was going on around him anyway.
Little Timmy poked through the remains of the reception desk, and finding nothing interesting there, wandered over to the snack cubby. He plugged a credit chit into the drink machine to get a soda, which he downed in one long chug. Throwing the drink container to the ground, he belched hugely.
He hefted a theatrical sigh.
"Man, how come they got to go do all the fun stuff? I''m stuck here with you in Snoozeville."
Roger glanced upward and giggled.
"Hallelujah," he said quietly.This tale has been unlawfully lifted from Royal Road; report any instances of this story if found elsewhere.
A screaming body fell from somewhere far above and crunched into the floor of the atrium. Little Timmy let out a small shriek, but recovered quickly.
"See?" he said. "They''re having all the fun up there."
Casting about for something to do, he headed toward the doors that led further into the building.
"I''mma go check over here," Little Timmy said. "See what these saucetags are hiding."
"Pooping rain clouds in the offing," Roger said.
Little Timmy shrugged, and slung his Kealans. Weapons secured, he wandered off. Roger unslung his rifle, leaned over, and began quietly chewing on the remains of one of the potted plants.
Little Timmy randomly pulled open one of the doors, which led to a tastefully decorated conference room.
"Lame," he evaluated.
He pulled open another that led to a room full of cubicles stretching away into the distance.
"Garbage," he opined.
He pulled open the next, which opened into a long, dim hallway.
"Antsy! Pantsies in trouble." Roger called out from behind him.
Little Timmy looked quizzically back at Roger, shrugged, and walked into the hallway, letting the door swing shut behind him. The sound here was muted, softened by dampeners and white noise generators placed strategically in the drop ceiling.
He wandered down the quiet hall and turned a corner to face a group of six heavily armed reinforcements marching toward him.
"Quick, they went that way!" he called, pointing back toward the atrium, which would have been a clever tactic if he had been dressed like a suitman, and not like a hobo wearing the ammunition stockpile of a third-world country.
The soldiers leveled their rifles at him.
"Who are you?" one of them barked.
Little Timmy''s face contorted briefly.
"Oh, um. Hello? Am I in some kind of trouble?" Dr. Navarre asked.
A moment of reflection later, Dr. Navarre sighed and raised his hands. "He''s done it again, hasn''t he?"
Oliver and D''khara had just stepped off the elevator and were moving toward the corner office. The elegant walkway, beautiful as it was, creaked warningly under Oliver''s weight.
"Maybe we should go across separately," D''khara suggested. "Just in case."
"Yes," Oliver mumbled, staring at the graceful architecture.
"Maybe I should go first," D''khara added. "Just in case."
Oliver nodded, worry settling into well-worn lines.
D''khara darted forward and was nearly across the walkway when a suitman stepped out onto the walkway with him, a small black pistol leveled at the dwarf.
It wasn''t clear what effect he intended this to have, but it didn''t work. D''khara didn''t even slow down. He speared the suitman in the gut with the barrel of his shotgun, lifting him off his feet and lobbing him over the railing.
A disappearing scream sounded as D''khara peeked over the guardrail, his beloved PZ-12 still in one hand. The scream cut off.
"Nasty," D''khara noted. He looked back and waved Oliver over.
Oliver gingerly stepped away from the elevator, and the walkway creaked even louder. It was not made for the kind of single-point pressure Oliver provided. No architect could have planned for an Oliver.
He moved forward another two steps. The walkway began bouncing slightly as he shifted his thousand pounds from foot to foot. D''khara paled as he watched Oliver make his way across.
At the halfway point, the whole walkway swayed with Oliver''s every movement. Moving faster, Oliver tried to balance speeding up with not putting too much stress on the delicate architecture. It creaked and complained at every step, but the engineering held, and Oliver was able to step into the hallway.
"Let''s definitely take the stairs on the way down," Oliver gasped. D''khara agreed.
The halls were eerily quiet as they made their way toward the corner office. Doors left open showed signs of a hasty evacuation, with scattered drifts of paper on the floor and overturned chairs left lying in walkways.
They arrived at the door to Adler''s corner office without encountering anyone else. Oliver laid his hand against the door to force it open. He grunted. He frowned slightly and pushed again. The door didn''t budge. He placed both hands against it and pushed steadily.
"Must be reinforced," D''khara said. "Hammer time?"
Oliver grunted in agreement and unslung his hammer.
Oliver''s hammer was an enormous, crude thing; less like a manufactured hand tool and more like a basketball-sized rock lashed to the end of a log. The head was unlovely: pitted, moldy, and discolored. The lashings were flat and worn, and the handle was misshapen and lumpy.
The hallway, broad as it was, was too narrow for Oliver to get a full swing going, but he managed by choking up on the handle and short-stroking the hammer into the door.
The door resounded with a hollow boom and a crunch. The classy wood veneer shattered, revealing the underlying steel.
Oliver swung again. The door boomed again, bending inward. Once more, boom, and the edge of the door was pushed in enough to fit a fist through.
Oliver steadily rained blows on the door. The pleasant exterior was torn away, revealing a solid steel door set in a concrete frame. Blow after blow, the steel slab pushed inward, jamming against, then into, then through the reinforced concrete frame.
Oliver''s meteor strikes against the door were powerful, but the door was designed to withstand precisely what Oliver was doing to it.
After twenty or so ringing blows, the door was folded nearly in half, crammed backwards through the frame. Oliver was able to get his hands around the edge of the door. With a mighty heave, he ripped the ruined door out of its frame. He gingerly leaned it against the wall nearby.
Oliver and D''khara entered the sumptuous office to find Adler seated behind his desk, taking his fingers out of his ears, looking extremely put out.
The two Riotfish stalked forward with grim intent.
"You could have knocked," Adler said.
"Oh, uh... we thought you''d be in a safe room or something," Oliver faltered.
"This is my safe room," Adler replied acidly.
"Well, you should have had an orc-proof door, I guess." D''khara said.
"I don''t have an orc-proof door for the same reason I don''t have a giraffe-proof door. Orcs are not part of my threat profile. They are not generally intelligent enough to take direction. Yours is well-trained, I see."
Oliver drew himself up to his full height.
"I''ll excuse your ignorance on this sole occasion," Oliver began, "but I''ll have you know that I am educated, and a voracious autodidact. Your short-sighted speciesism has clouded your powers of observation and your judgment, but if you recant, I could be persuaded to let it pass."
Adler was visibly taken aback.
"Interesting. Well, I recant, by all means. You are certainly a fascinating product. A result of Project Icarus, perhaps? One of the other agencies? Whose lab did you come out of?"
Oliver was disturbed to speechlessness by the intense calculation on Adler''s face, so D''khara decided to step in.
"We''re a result of Project ''Where''s Our Boss'', and we''re in a hurry. Tell us where he is and we won''t turn you into fascinated axle grease."
"You work for Fleer?" Adler sat back with a small smile. "I''m not sure if you''re a measure of how far he''s fallen, or that he''s on his way back up. Worth thinking about."
"Right," D''khara said. He lifted his PZ-12, and emptied the drum bupbupbupbup around the office, aiming for the most expensive-looking items he could see. After having holed up items worth more than he would ever make in his entire lifetime, he shucked the empty drum, locked in a fresh one, and leveled it at Adler.
"There''s only one thing ''worth thinking about'' right now. Where is Fleer?"
Adler raised his hands with a distasteful sneer.
"He''s been taken away for... debriefing."
D''khara''s brows drew down as he cocked his head quizzically.
"Which is to say, processing," he clarified.
D''khara''s expression did not clear.
"Disposal? Termination? Permanent demotion? Have you no sense of decorum? How crude and explicit do I need to be?" Leaning over the desk and speaking slowly, he said "My men have taken him away to end his life and dispose of his body."
Adler was so focused on D''khara that he was taken completely by surprise when Oliver gripped the back of his neck and lifted him bodily over the desk.
"Well then," Oliver said, "you can accompany us and show us which way they went." 22 - The Adler Acquisition, Part 4: Reinforcements Show Up
The door burst open and Dr. Navarre was frog-marched back out of the hallway ahead of the soldiers. He had already been roughly relieved of Little Timmy''s Kealans, and had his hands zip-tied behind him. The soldiers paused to take in the destruction of what had once been a lovely and well-appointed atrium.
The squad leader''s face hardened as he took in the mess.
"Okay, the frontliners weren''t exaggerating for once," he said. "Looks like an entire heavy platoon went through. Let''s check this zone for any more hostiles." The squad leader barked out assignments, and his men dispersed.
It only took a few minutes of sweeping through the quiet rubble to get a report back.
"Sir! No hostiles remaining in the atrium."
"They may have penetrated the building already," the squad leader said. Another dozen soldiers filed in from a far door. "Bravo team, good to see you. Secure this zone. Once the rest of the reinforcements arrive, we''ll flush the hostiles out. We can sweep the building, floor by floor, bottom to top. Just like the exercises, gentlemen. Let''s give our mystery guests a proper welcome."
"Yes, sir!" chorused the men. The squad leader fired off commands, sending his men out to guard the perimeter of the atrium. After some disciplined bustle, the squad leader was left alone with Dr. Navarre.
The squad leader laid Dr. Navarre facedown on the ground. Patting him down, he pulled out his wallet, a pair of .45 caliber Nealy handguns from a holster in the small of his back, two packs of standard PBX plastic explosives, several iffy packs of Little Timmy''s custom explosives, and emptied his pockets of sketchy-looking detonators.
With Dr. Navarre thoroughly disarmed, the squad leader examined the Kealan submachine guns. He snorted with disgust.
"These guns are trashed," he said. "These muzzle brakes are just spinning around loose on the end of the barrel. If you lay on the trigger, they''ll spin and throw your shot off every which way."
"Ahahahahaha, yes." Dr. Navarre laughed his gentle laugh. "Well, they''re not really mine. I''m holding them for a friend."
"Riiiiight," the squad leader said, examining the guns further. "Fifty round stick mags, lots of noise, but you won''t hit anything. Somebody''s been watching too many war holos."
"I understand he likes them that way. I''ve heard that he says that aiming is not his strong suit, so he goes for, um, coverage."
"Your friend says," the squad leader said skeptically.
"Well, yes. If I''m being honest, I''ve never really met him. I have a minor personality disorder, you see. Little Timmy is what you might call my other personality. Through a series of traumatic episodes, my personality was dissociated into two parts. One is my true self, and the other is Little Timmy, my alter ego. He gets me in the most amazing kinds of trouble."
"You have two ID cards", the squad leader noted, thumbing through Dr. Navarre''s wallet.
"Well, it wouldn''t be proper for Little Timmy or I to use each other''s personalities for our own purposes. It''s best to keep things separate."
The squad leader glared at Dr. Navarre, his mouth hanging open in revulsion.
"You''re nuts," he said.
"While you are technically correct," Dr. Navarre said, "that term is both offensive and ignores that both of my personalities are what you might call high-functioning, within my disorder."
"What kind of low-rent outfit keeps a loose screw like you? You guys are mercenaries?" he asked.
"Oh, yes. We''re Riotfish, Inc. We''re plucky upstarts! But we''ve recently fallen on hard times. We''re trying to break into the world of high-end corporate gigs."
"What''s your Guild number?"Unlawfully taken from Royal Road, this story should be reported if seen on Amazon.
"We''re not with the Guild just yet, but Mr. Fleer assures us that he''s working quite hard on getting us in."
The squad leader snorted.
"Working on getting into the Guild? And who''s your sponsor? Slappy the Cat?"
"Well, we don''t have a sponsor quite yet, I don''t think. Mr. Fleer is quite--"
"Okay, well let me give you a nickel''s worth of free advice, Doctor Exposition," he began.
"Oh, how did you know I was a doctor? That''s quite an astute--"
"This guy Fleer is a huckster. You''re not getting the best gigs without being in the Guild, and you won''t be getting into the Guild without a sponsor, and no exec or high-roller is going to stake his reputation on a bunch of losers like you.
"Now that''s unkind. It looks like we''ve infiltrated, so clearly we''ve had some success. This... this definitely looks like Little Timmy''s work."
"Look, once you''re out of prison, go find yourself a nice safe job somewhere and stay away from guys like this Fleer. I know his type; he''s trouble. And he''s going to get you guys killed thinking you''re real mercenaries." The squad leader pulled a card out of his pocket and showed it to Dr. Navarre. "See that? That''s my Guild card. Insurance, work rights, safety regulations, the works. You guys have any of that?"
"As much as I appreciate your advice, I''m afraid you''re quite wrong on two points. One, you don''t quite understand Mr. Fleer. He has an extensive background in the corporate world, and he''s very ardent in his support of us. And secondly, I''m not going to go to prison."
"Oh? You don''t strike me as a ''death before dishonor'' type."
"Not at all. But you and your men haven''t found Roger yet."
"Roger? Is he another one like you?"
"Hahaha oh, no. Roger''s crazy. I mean that in the kindest way, of course."
"Crazy. He''s crazy. Right. And what makes you think we haven''t caught him yet?"
"Because he''s about to stab you."
Roger landed on the squad leader''s back, hissing and screeching and swinging his knife in wide overhand arcs. Shrieking and stumbling, the squad leader staggered away from Dr. Navarre.
"Roger! Careful please! Roger, the blood..." Spatters of fresh blood sprinkled Dr. Navarre''s face and he trailed off.
His hands trembled in their bindings. His pupils shrank to pinpoints, and his face crumpled into a hateful sneer.
"I''m tied!" screamed Little Timmy. "Who tied me up?! Roger!"
Roger left off stabbing, leapt off the still body of the squad leader and stuttered over to Little Timmy, his lizard body twitching disturbingly.
He stared at Little Timmy for a long moment with such a deep intensity that a worm of concern started to worry through Little Timmy''s mind. With a sudden, grand, full-armed sweep of his knife, Roger parted the zip tie binding Little Timmy''s wrists without so much as nicking his skin.
Little Timmy sat up and grabbed his kit, briefly rubbing his face on his Kealans.
"My babies," he cooed.
"Bangy angers!" Roger hissed, pointing with his knife at the soldiers who came running in after hearing the screams.
"On it." Little Timmy leapt to his feet. With a practiced motion, he ejected the stick mags from his guns and slammed the open mag wells down onto the fresh magazines poking up from his belt. Lifting them free of the webbing, he hooked the knurled handles of his guns into the corners of his pockets and shoved downward to rack them.
"Come get a pain salad!" he shrieked, and opened fire on the two soldiers approaching from the right.
Roger tilted his head quizzically at Little Timmy''s outburst, then turned and gripped the wall, sinking his finger-claws into the drywall surface. With surprising speed, he shimmied up the wall and shifted toward the three soldiers approaching from the left.
Little Timmy dashed sideways, keeping his guns burping lead in the general direction of the two soldiers. Given his marksmanship, they were actually quite safe, but they didn''t know that and dove for cover.
Little Timmy continued firing and shrieking until both guns ran dry, whereupon he just shrieked as he ran behind a large planter and ducked.
The two well-trained soldiers did not waste any time. The first signaled, and the other popped up, spitting bursts of fire at the planter while the first ran further out, taking cover behind the receptionist''s desk.
Like a well-oiled machine, they traded roles, one suppressing, the other advancing, sweeping out around the stone planter.
Little Timmy didn''t know what a flanking maneuver was, and couldn''t have found the definition on a map (and in fact, would probably not have known that a map is not where you''d find definitions, generally), but he knew he didn''t dare poke his head up. The fire was relentless, and his area of safety behind the planter was rapidly shrinking as the soldiers spread out further to fire on him from two sides.
Soon they''d be directly on either side of him. Little Timmy was locked into an inescapable and rapidly shrinking kill zone.
His Kealans were freshly reloaded, but they weren''t going to do him much good if he couldn''t get his head up. He peeked over the edge of the planter just in time to catch a face full of rock splinters from incoming fire. Swearing viciously, he ducked, falling onto his hands and knees.
Rolling over onto his back forced a grunt out of him. One of his bulky pouches had pushed up into his ribs. Rooting for the offending article, he fished out a block of plastic explosive. The dim flicker of an idea sparked in his brain. Pushing a detonator into explosive, he quickly wired in a timed fuse, thought for a moment and carefully pulled the timing knob out a tiny amount.
Then he keyed his radio.
"Guys? We''ve got a little trouble down here. You might want to step it up." 23 - The Adler Acquisition, Part 5: Taking the Elevator (Out)
The soldier darted forward, sliding into cover behind a support column near the east elevator. He set himself, shaking his head. They were pulling off a classic flanking maneuver, and this mercenary was just letting it happen. For all his shrieking and firing, he had the tactical competence of a mushroom.
How had someone so clueless lasted this long?
It didn''t matter. He settled himself into his new position and raised his rifle, sighting on the stone planter. He spit some more rounds at it, watching as the continuous autofire ate away at the thick-walled decoration. It was solid and well-built, but it was in no way designed to withstand the kind of hammering they were giving it.
His partner hopped up and widened their arc around the mercenary. Once his partner was set and firing, he took a moment to reload.
He slapped the magazine home and pulled the bolt handle to chamber the first round. Something hissed by him along the floor. Following it with his eyes, he saw a block of plastic explosive slide over to the grand column of glass and brass that surrounded the free-standing elevators.
To a normal person, the elevators looked like stately, beautiful architecture, glorious in their scope and size, breathtaking in their tasteful decor.
To Little Timmy, they looked like a stack of knife blades eighteen stories high.
The explosion hammered out two of the steel supports from the base of Column East, shattering the glass into a starry cloud thirty feet up and spraying jagged shards across the atrium. The soldier''s body rag-dolled through the air, crunching to a stop against the reception desk as razor sheets of structural glass smashed down around him. Bleeding and barely clinging to consciousness, he raised his eyes, his gaze traveling up the elevator column.
The elevator car at the top rocked and knocked back and forth against its glass enclosure, rattling the panes in their slender brass frames, dangerously close to knocking one loose. The whole tower swayed as the steel of the remaining supports groaned, bent, flexed, and hung for one moment, seeming undecided as to whether they would hold or give.
The soldier held his breath as he watched the steel supports, blackened by the explosion, twist and begin to buckle. He willed the supports to hold with every erg of mental energy he could muster.
He watched in horrified fascination as the whole tower shuddered slightly, bent a little more, made a laboring sound... and held.
He was breathing out a watery sigh of relief and disbelief when a second brown block of explosive slid toward the tower. It sailed through the area where the glass wall had been and dropped into the elevator shaft.
The second explosion echoed deep within the bowels of the building. The elevator cables snapped loose and whipped around, singing out through the atrium with deadly speed. The elevator car smashed through the glass at the top of the tower eighteen floors above. It hung out of the tower at an awkward angle. The panels that made up the tower rained down, shattering and spinning deadly sheets and shards of razor-sharp glass on the atrium below.
Soldiers scrambled, trying to find cover from the deadly rain while Little Timmy stood on the planter, firing his SMGs crazily around and shrieking with mad glee.
The elevator car creaked and leaned and finally snapped loose, pinwheeling free of the tower, trailing deadly whip-cables and flying free for three glorious seconds before impacting the floor of the atrium like a bomb. Brass panels sizzled and spun through the air, one neatly decapitating a decorative tree, another nearly smashing through a support column.
The glass settled, tinkling and crashing its last hurrah, as lighter debris drifted down and the collapse of the elevator tower finished. Little Timmy had run out of ammo, and was simply standing on the planter, drinking in the destruction, his face lit with unholy delight.
He waited to see if any more shooting would come, but none did. Whether from the falling glass, the elevator, or Little Timmy''s mad firing, the squad of reinforcements had been silenced.
"I have, a golf putter!" Roger exclaimed. "Furry and lovable!"
"Yeah," breathed Little Timmy, rapturous. "Yeah. That''s exactly right, man."
The six suitmen surrounding Fleer were of a type: slim, athletic, in trim suits and identical neutral expressions. They escorted him, two with grips on his upper arms, and four bracketing him, two ahead and two behind, perfectly spaced. They''d thoroughly shaken him down, taking his datasink, panic button, and, annoyingly, his shoes. It irked him more than he expected to be escorted through a professional office in his sock feet.
There didn''t appear to be much likelihood of introductions passing around, so Fleer named his escorts for himself. The two in front he''d already dubbed Larry and Curly, based on their hairstyles-- the man on the left had curly, receding hair, so he was Larry, and the fellow on the right was bald, so he was Curly. The pretty fellow with the loose but alert grip on his left arm had carefully coiffed hair, but a long nose, so Fleer decided he would be Shemp. The man with the grip on his right was Moe. He was dark-skinned, thickly muscled, and bald, but Fleer was running out of Stooge names. He couldn''t see the two men behind him very well, so they were Joe and Curly Joe.
"So, you guys do this much?" Staring ahead as one man, they all acted as though they hadn''t heard him. "I used to do this too, you know. On my way up the ladder. Not bad work if you can get it." Still no response. "Of course, I eventually broke through. Made director, you know. Fun times." Nothing. "I was an assassin," he mentioned, "top of my field, for a while. Maybe you''ve heard of me? David Fleer? Concordium Regional Assassin of Note two years running? Executive Quarterly did a piece on me. I was bucking for VP. Ring any bells?"
No bells appeared to be ringing.This book is hosted on another platform. Read the official version and support the author''s work.
"I was pretty quick," he said, talking a little faster now. "I can''t talk about the contracts of course, NDAs and all that, but I was quick on the draw. I could snatch a man''s gun right out of his holster without him even noticing." Larry glanced back with a sneer, and squeezed his left arm slightly to his side, as though checking that something was still there. It was progress, of a sort. "You guys are sharp, though. Got a lot of practice in, I can tell."
With smooth ease, they bustled him to a freight elevator at the back of the building, gracefully placing him in the exact center and surrounding him.
"Little warm in here," he said, talking faster. "Wish they''d turn the A/C up in these buildings. Am I right?" He grinned uneasily, worrying at his socks with his feet. "Can''t be comfortable for you goons-- I mean, you guys, in those tight suits. Gotta be pretty warm. You guys warm?"
They did nothing to indicate their current state of distress, or lack thereof. The elevator dinged, and the suitmen moved him smoothly out of the elevator.
"So, uh, what do you guys use? Injection? Execution-style headshot? That one''s messier than you''d think. Not as messy as cutting the throat. That one''s really messy. Strangling? That''s slow, and not very pleasant. Uh, or do you have, like, a machine or something?"
Nobody indicated if they had a machine or something.
"Wow, you guys are really good at this." Fleer was nearly babbling now. "I can''t remember the last time I''ve seen such, uh, professionals. Six escorts for one guy, though, it''s a bit much, right? Don''t need that many professionals for little old me. So I don''t guess you guys would want to take a break? Check your messages? Boss might have rescinded that order, am I right?"
They arrived at a blank steel door in the middle of a nondescript hall. A small sign nearby read "Processing and Disposal".
Curly, to his front left, rapped out a pattern. The door opened.
Fleer was escorted into a cheerful reception area. Tinny, annoying Muzak dripped from the speakers in the ceiling. Cheap potted plants stood in the corners, and a bland, neutral-colored pattern covered the walls. The wall to the right was dominated by a window, tinted with the tell-tale silvering of a one-way mirror. Cameras were mounted above the window, pointing into the next room, which was dark and quiet.
A bank of computers sat against the far wall. They were manned by a weedy, spotty man with an incredibly narrow nose, sitting in a cheap swivel chair. He turned around as the guards entered with their charge.
"One for processing, straight from Adler," Moe said.
"Oh hey, wow, you guys talk! That''s great!" Fleer yammered.
The narrow-nosed man rolled his eyes.
"I''ve got two in the fridge now, and pickup''s not until Tuesday. You tell Adler that if he sends me any more, we''ll have to start transferring bodies to the basement facility."
He peered at Fleer.
"Now what do we have here? Can I have a name?"
"Oh, yes! David Fleer, owner of Riotfish, Inc. I think there''s been a misunderstanding, these gentlemen were meant to escort me out of the building. Ha ha! No worries! Mistakes happen!"
"Hmmhmm," the narrow-nosed man said, turning and putting the information into his computer. "Any special instructions?"
"Ha ha! No, he just said to get out and never come back! Go figure! Me and my mouth, the trouble I get into, ha ha!"
"Just disposal," Moe said. "Nothing fancy."
"Hmm." More data entry.
"Really, it''s no trouble. I''ll just head right out and you''ll never see me again! Scout''s honor!"
"Well, the bottom fridge is free. Use a bag. It took me three days to clean it out last time."
"Ha ha ok, wow, you guys are serious. You know what? This is all just a big misunderstanding. There is no way this is what Adler meant. I mean, just a little conversation between old friends, am I right? Right?"
"There you go. Don''t forget to file the forms after. Gotta have the paperwork."
"Sure thing."
The narrow-nosed man pressed a button, and with a sharp mechanical buzz the door beside the window opened, and the lights in the next room blazed on. The suitmen pressed Fleer toward the door.
"Hey, you know what? Check your records! I think you''ll find that--" but the suitmen pushed him into the room.
The room was covered floor-to-ceiling in glazed slate. There were three small, stacked doors in the far wall, about the right size for mortuary refrigerators. A cabinet to the left bore a sign marked "Body Bags". A large round drain in the floor was poised to catch the flow from shower heads hanging from the ceiling.
The center of the room was dominated by a restraining device, mounted to the floor. The operation was clear: the subject would be pushed in face-first, leaning forward, then the head, arms and legs would be locked into place with adjustable clamps. The subject would be rendered helpless and immobile, with all the critical areas exposed. Execution could then be carried out any number of ways.
"Oh boy, that''s a Botano Forward Restraint system, that is a fantastic piece of equipment! You guys ever get a chance to--"
The door clicked shut behind them.
Fleer jammed his bare feet onto the floor. His handlers stumbled at his sudden stop. Fleer snapped his right arm forward, breaking Moe''s grip, and spun his left arm around Shemp''s, trapping it and locking it in a painful hyperextension.
Fleer spun to face Shemp. Faster than thought and close enough to kiss, he rammed his hand into the other man''s jacket, pulled his pistol out just far enough to get a finger on the trigger, and fired through his holster and jacket at the men behind Shemp.
Four shots rang out, bambam bambam. The back of Shemp''s jacket was shredded open by the escaping gasses. Joe took two rounds in center mass, dropping like a stone. Curly Joe caught the other two, one in the liver, curling him around the wound, and the other in the face, just to the left of his nose. He toppled sideways.
Shemp, unable to free his right arm from Fleer''s armlock, got his left arm up, reaching for Fleer''s face. Fleer disentangled himself just enough to get some space between his chest and Shemp''s and put a round straight through his heart. Shemp''s eyes flew wide, and immediately glazed over.
Fleer spun Shemp''s falling corpse into Moe, who was just starting to reach into his jacket. Moe and Shemp sprawled to the floor.
Now standing back-to-back with Larry, Fleer drove his heel back up between Larry''s legs. Larry gave a sharp grunt and doubled over.
By this point, Curly had drawn his gun and was turning to face Fleer. Fleer fired twice more, aiming for the head, and Curly dropped, his face cored. The slide on the gun locked open. Out of ammo.
Seven rounds? Fleer grimaced. These guys needed bigger guns.
He frisbeed the empty handgun into the face of Moe, who was still on the ground trying to get free of Shemp''s body.
Larry was staggering with one hand still on his privates, but had managed to pull his handgun out. Fleer turned and leaped forward, planting a knee high into his side. The gristly crunch of contact told Fleer that he''d broken or sprung at least two ribs. He snaked himself behind Larry just as Moe started firing.
Larry soaked up the three rounds intended for Fleer. Fleer grabbed Larry''s gun as it dropped from nerveless fingers and returned fire, silencing the gunman on the floor.
Spinning and dropping to one knee, he put a single bullet through the mirror, just to the right of center.
Breathing heavily, Fleer waited for a moment.
Nobody moved. No alarms sounded.
Everything was silent.
"Yes!" Fleer shouted. "Seven at once! That is a personal record!" he crowed. "I''ve still got it!" 24 - The Adler Acquisition, Part 6: Absconding
The door was locked, but the mirror was already shattered, so he kicked out the remaining glass as quietly as he could manage. He''d gone to all the trouble to wait until he was in a soundproof room to start shooting; he didn''t want to draw attention now.
The narrow-nosed man was lying on the floor next to his seat behind the bank of computers. The killing shot had gone through his throat instead of his head, but considering that Fleer had been firing blindly into a mirror, he felt that was still a pretty good outcome. In any case, it got the job done. The narrow-nosed man was no longer a threat.
Fleer looked over the monitors to double-check that he hadn''t had time to fire off an alarm.
He hadn''t.
Fleer rifled the corpses to retrieve his panic button, datasink, and shoes. Unfortunately, his socks were in an elevator somewhere, so he''d have to go sockless. He dragged narrow-nose''s body into the execution chamber. No point in leaving more work for the cleanup crew.
He didn''t relish the thought of trying to get out. Even if no alarms were tripped by his escape, the building was clearly already evacuated and locked down. It was going to be a dicey exfiltration. He didn''t even know if the Riotfish had been notified by his panic button, but hopefully they''d be able to create enough of a diversion that he could sneak out.
His only concern there was that they''d wade into more trouble than they could handle. He didn''t have a lot resources to call in a rescue strike. If anybody got themselves captured, he could kiss the little bit of money they had goodbye.
Assuming the Matters, Inc. security was in the mood to capture, and not kill.
He shook his head. For all their qualities, the Riotfish weren''t, well, intimidating. Or great at planning. Or thinking on their feet. Or acting without direction and supervision. If they were even here, surely they wouldn''t seem like enough of a threat for security here to take a shoot-first approach?
In any case, it was high time he got out.
With a worried sigh, he carefully laid his hand on the doorknob. He looked back at the computers.
Where there were computers, there were dataports, and where there were dataports...
He released the knob and slowly pulled the datasink from his pocket. He hadn''t snagged Adler, but the day didn''t have to be a total loss.
"I don''t know, fool!" Adler spat. "I don''t ask where they take them! I give the orders, who cares where they''re handled? Do you think I ask the janitor where the paper gets shredded?"
D''khara rammed the barrel of his shotgun hard into Adler''s gut.
"You watch what you say," he growled as Adler gasped for breath. "Oliver''s nice, but I''m just a stupid, angry dwarf. I''ve been wanting to shoot someone all day, and you''ve got a real big mouth."
They were traveling down one of the hallways leading from Adler''s office. Oliver had a firm grip on the back of Adler''s suit, with the expensive fabric crumpled up in his huge fist.
"Maybe downstairs," Adler sulked, once he could speak. "I think we have some processing rooms on the third floor."
Oliver and D''khara glanced at each other.
"Stairs," they said simultaneously.
They banged into the nearest stairwell on the north side. It was a stark contrast to the rest of the building: all exposed concrete, steel supports and bare light fixtures. Some effort had been made in the distant past to paint the area, apparently by sneezing the blandest imaginable gray onto every visible surface. A generic gray placard showed the number "18" in light gray on a dark gray background.
They clattered down the stairs, with D''khara leading the way, and Oliver nearly carrying Adler.
It was only a couple minutes later when they rounded another landing, passing a placard marked "9", and D''khara was blowing hard, but determined not to slow things up. Oliver, despite carrying Adler, had been taking the stairs three at a time, and he was barely even breathing heavily.
"Um, D''khara, would you mind if we rested for a second? I think I need to take a break."
"Yeah," D''khara wheezed. "Yeah. That''s smart thinking." He leaned against the wall, drawing in deep, hoarse breaths.
Adler sneered.
"Not very practiced at this, are you? Don''t work out much? Shouldn''t you two run along and find work you''re more suited for? I think we have some openings for secretarial work. They don''t have to move around too much."
Oliver shifted his grip, grabbed the lapels of Adler''s jacket with his other hand and squeezed. The quality silk and stitching strained as Oliver slowly intensified his grip. Adler gasped as his clothes tightened enough to keep him from breathing.The narrative has been taken without authorization; if you see it on Amazon, report the incident.
"Quiet, hm?" said Oliver. He held the suffocating pressure for a long second, then he loosened his hand.
Oliver''s radio crackled to life.
"Guys?" Little Timmy''s voice came through. "We''ve got a little trouble down here. You might want to step it up."
"Roger," Oliver keyed back.
"Where, are the noodles?" Roger''s voice squawked back over the radio.
"Um, I meant I heard the message is all. Sorry, Roger."
"Wheeeeeeee!" Then the radio fell silent.
D''khara nodded, gulped in a determined breath and started downstairs again.
After another six flights down, they stopped in front of a door marked "3". They paused again in the stairwell for D''khara to catch his breath.
"I''ll warn you," Adler said, "my men are highly trained and well-armed, prepared for any eventuality. You''re walking into a deathtrap."
"Two things," D''khara huffed. "One, we left a bunch of your well-trained guys in well-trained chunks on the floor of the lobby. And two, we may be walking into a deathtrap, but you''re walking into it first. Hope your guys are well-trained to not shoot."
Adler''s lips writhed.
"You... stupid semihumans," he spat, "the best you can hope for is to walk into a stalemate. What do you think will happen if you try to trade me for Fleer? Do you think you can just walk out of here? More troops are being airlifted this very second!"
"I am confident that Fleer has a plan," Oliver replied, and pushed open the door.
The third floor looked as deserted as the eighteenth. Adler was in front, silently pointing their way while being pushed by Oliver. They were followed by D''khara, who was covering their rear.
They rounded a final corner and Adler resignedly gestured at a nondescript metal door with a small sign next to it reading "Processing and Disposal".
They were flanking the door, quietly considering their options when the building groaned, a deep, harmonious cacophony that sang through the walls and shuddered the floor beneath them.
"I think we may have left Little Timmy and Roger alone for too long," Oliver noted.
Adler paled.
"Who are you people?" he asked.
D''khara glared at him with gimlet eyes.
"We''re the Riotfish," he said.
Oliver nodded, smashed the door in with his free hand, and thrust Adler through.
"Well, hello again," Fleer grinned.
D''khara and Oliver piled in behind Adler.
They were in a damaged reception area. A hole dominated the right wall where a mirror had once been, with silvered glass still clinging to the frame.
Fleer lounged near one of the computers, with a small device in his hand trailing wires to one of the computers.
"Fleer?" Adler marveled. "How..."
"You seem to have forgotten how I made my way up the ranks," he said, gesturing distractedly toward the shattered window.
D''khara glanced through the window. There were, or had been, perhaps six or seven men in there.
"At any rate, I had the foresight to bring my little datasink with me," Fleer said, waving the device around casually. "It''s so much easier to crack a holonet once you''re on the premises. The sink''s been soaking up some details here that should be worth a tidy sum on the open market, don''t you think? Naturally, you''re welcome to bid on it, to keep it out of the hands of other interested parties."
Adler turned white and red by turns, suppressing an apoplectic fit.
"You. Will. Hang for this! I am going to have the old hanging laws dusted off, and I will put the rope around your neck personally!"
"Mmhmm. Perhaps. Once you''re back in your office, of course." Fleer looked up from the datasink. "You''ll need to come up with 90,000 credits first, though. To fulfill the contract that we came for? Unless, of course, you''d care to explain to the Guild that you filed an insincere contract?"
Adler seethed, but wisely, for once, remained silent.
Fleer unplugged the datasink with a flourish.
"Let''s go, men. I think we''ll need to clear out of here shortly."
"Yes sir," D''khara and Oliver chorused, grinning.
In the remains of the atrium, Fleer grinned tightly through his horrified stare.
"Next time we pair off," he said through a clenched smile, "choose different pairs." D''khara nodded slowly while Oliver gaped. Adler started making a choking sound, unable, for once, to find anything to say.
"Many many uptimes!" Roger chirped lustily, warming his hands. He was seated comfortably next to a cozily burning pile of something in the rubble, taking his ease.
"Oh hey, boss-man. Nabbed you a corper?" Little Timmy asked. He was lounging with his feet propped on a loose statue head, practicing spinning his Nealy .45 pistols.
They''d just exited the stairwell into the atrium, taking in the breathtaking destruction that was quickly becoming Riotfish''s stock in trade.
"Let''s get moving," Fleer said weakly. We''ll debrief back at HQ."
"Right, boss!"
"Nibbly biscuits!"
Fleer smiled at the ongoing celebration in the rec area. Once they''d gotten Adler bottled up and under guard, everybody was in high spirits. They were all high voices and loud laughs, and Mrs. Meade was making cookies, filling the old warehouse with a lovely warm homey smell.
Even D''khara came out of his shell, explaining the dwarvish victory tradition of challenging his fellow combatants to a leg-wrestling match. He''d still been roaring with laughter as they fetched the ladder to help him down from the rafters after he''d challenged Oliver.
Fleer made the rounds, congratulating everyone and soaking in the positive energy in the HQ.
"So David," Oliver said, "how close does this get us to our goal?"
"That''s a great question! In addition to the spec contract worth 90,000 credits, I get to negotiate with Adler over this," he said, spinning the datasink between his fingers with a grin. He continued in a hushed voice. "I''m betting I can get at least another 10,000 credits out of him to get this back. No telling what kinds of secrets we managed to hoover up." He raised his voice back to a normal level. "All of that puts us a fifth of the way to paying off what we owe. I''m thinking Pearce will see we''re clearly a force to be reckoned with, and back off. Once those credits come through, everything should be back to business as usual."
He grinned hugely.
"So I think it''s safe to say that we''re solidly past this crisis. Thank you all for your excellent work out there."
A small cheer greeted this, and Fleer waved at everyone as he went back to his office to finish up the paperwork for this job. 25 - The Adler Acquisition: Aftermath
Fleer steeled himself to face Adler. Fleer recognized that he was not the best negotiator, and Adler was used to wheeling big deals.
He''d made a slightly outlandish boast to the crew that he could get 10,000 credits for the little datasink, but realistically he was hoping to clear 5,000. That was still a pretty nice little extra on their payday. But if he could get that up closer to 10,000, that would net them a clean 100,000 credits for the job. Round numbers made him happy. Especially when they had so many digits.
He left his office, trailed through the dimmed rec room, toward the back of the warehouse, past the barracks, back in the fusty dark section nobody much went into-- where they kept the old paperwork, leftover machines, and the brig. "Containment cell" was the more proper and modern term, but Fleer really liked the idea of having a brig.
He nodded to Mrs. Meade, who was standing guard, pushed open the door, and entered Adler''s cell.
Adler was sitting in a folding metal chair with his arms and legs crossed, looking decidedly put out. A small table held his datapad.
"So, Adler," Fleer said. "Have you had a chance to look over the contract?"
"I''ve been locked in this tiny room for four hours. What else was I going to do?"
Fleer grinned.
"So, does it meet your approval? Should I forward it along to Matters, Inc.''s legal team?"
"I''ll need to discuss it with them. Find out what''s required. The terms seem reasonable. Though I''ve never seen such a... thorough non-retribution clause."
"Let''s call it an ''experienced'' clause."
Adler''s datapad pinged quietly. Ignoring Fleer, he picked it up and scanned through a message. He suddenly looked sick, and started frantically typing in a message.
"Everything okay?" Fleer asked.
"Fine," Adler said. "Fine. Just talking with some people. The board has convened over this matter."
Fleer grimaced in sympathy, but he was ignored as Adler messaged furiously.
"Just... figuring stuff out for Monday. For when I get back," Adler said, still focused on his messages.
Eventually his messages slowed, then stopped. He finally looked up from his datapad, only to stare blankly at the wall across the room.
Fleer gave him a minute before re-engaging.
"There will be one more addendum," Fleer said. "We still haven''t discussed this." Fleer drew the datasink out of his pocket and Adler''s eyes locked on it. "Do you think it would make sense to lump the payment for this in with the Guild contract?"
"Yes. Let''s get that taken care of as well. Has anybody looked at the data?"
"No. It''s been solely in my possession since we left your facility."
"I''ll pay 150,000 credits for that. As long as nobody looks at it." Fleer blanched, doing his best to keep his expression neutral.
"That seems reasonable," he responded, keeping his voice carefully even. "I''ll get that worked into the release contract."
Adler nodded, and Fleer left the room. Adler''s eyes never left the datasink.
Fleer had never jumped up and clicked his heels before, but he was powerfully tempted to do so now. The financial transfer had been approved. Once the funds cleared, Riotfish, Inc. was going to be closer to black than they had been at any time since he''d acquired them.
It had been fewer than 24 hours since the Riotfish had left the Hayworth building (or rather, had left what was left), and he already had a redlined contract back. Matters, Inc.''s lawyers hadn''t even blinked at it. A quick scan of the changes, and he sent back his signature. Done.
He leaned back in his chair with a sigh of satisfaction. Now to wait for the payment to clear, then they could let Adler out of his cell.
He''d tried not to be too obvious about leaving Roger off the guard rotation. He figured Adler had already had a rough day, and Roger could be trying if you weren''t used to him. Plus, he wasn''t sure if Roger knew that Adler was a former Rigenic exec; Fleer didn''t want to know how things would play out if Roger learned that little factoid. Best to keep things peaceful.
He idly looked at the little datasink sitting on his desk. He was powerfully curious-- there was something on there that Adler was deeply anxious about. Considering his past with Rigenic and Project Icarus, it was likely to be something nasty. Fleer picked it up and stared at the cheap plastic housing.
One little push, and he could hook it to his machine and dump all that data in just a few minutes. See what had Adler so worried.
But no. That kind of thinking belonged in Adler''s world, not his. He was a businessman, not a corper. If a businessman didn''t have his word, his ability to hold up a deal, he didn''t really have anything at all. Even a ragged little outfit like Riotfish could be honorable.If you encounter this tale on Amazon, note that it''s taken without the author''s consent. Report it.
His computer gave a soft "bing!" and a blue notification light pulsed. He poked it, and a beautiful, beautiful message popped up, notifying him that a payment of 240,000 credits had cleared into Riotfish''s primary account.
Just lovely.
Grinning and humming, he hopped up from his seat and drifted back to Adler''s cell.
He arrived at the cell, which had once been an office, which used to be just an old storage closet, and rapped on the door. The door cracked open slightly and Little Timmy''s face shot out of the narrow gap.
"He knows something," Little Timmy hissed.
"What?"
"He knows! The conspiracy! I''ve been explaining it to him for hours now, and he says I''m crazy! Which just shows you that they don''t want word getting out!"
"I''m sure you''re right," Fleer said gently, "but the contract''s signed and payment''s been made. It''s time for him to go."
Little Timmy was crestfallen.
"But I didn''t even get to the part where they''re using lizardmen for their mind control experiments!"
"Dipsos, Timmy, not liz-- not that other word. That''s rude. Come on." He waved Little Timmy aside and stepped into the cell.
Despite having been reasonably well-treated, Adler looked rough. He''d been offered a change of clothes, food, a shower, and a number of other creature comforts, all of which he''d flatly refused. His suit, like his demeanor, was strained and rumpled. He seemed to be shell-shocked, staring off into nothing.
"Everything''s processed, Adler. You ready to go back home?"
"Huh?" Adler blinked and slowly focused on Fleer.
"Home? I bet a good night''s sleep in your own bed and a solid meal will get you back on your feet."
"Right, right."
"I have your things here. Want us to call you a ride?"
"Huh? No, no, I have a guy." Adler punched a button on his datapad. "He''ll come for me."
"Sure thing. Exit is this way."
Adler shambled after Fleer through the HQ and out the front door to stand uncertainly on the sidewalk. He stared numbly at the weed-choked street, the poorly-painted front, and the pitted, flaking sign. Fleer decided to wait with him to make sure he got off okay. And to have him close to hand, just in case of any shenanigans.
"I don''t know, Fleer."
"Hm?"
"About you. You''re doing everything wrong. Always have, from what I hear. And yet here we are."
"I''m not sure I understand what you mean."
"The Board is spitting acid. They''re out to flay me. This is not just a money thing, this is a public embarrassment. They''re going to make an example out of me, let me take the fall for all this." He paused, staring at the stars, drinking in the night air. "I had so, so many plans in flight. It''s going to take me years to undo the political fallout from this, today. But you, you just got some, some, some chump change, and you''re happy as can be and nobody''s going to shred you on Monday morning.
"And your guys," he continued, "they''re all wrong, too. I mean, crazy wrong... my guys all had the best training and equipment and I had dozens of ''em."
"And yet here we are," Fleer rejoined.
"Yeah. I can''t figure it out-- am I doing it wrong, or are you just doing everything so wrong that none of the rest of us can keep up?"
"Hard to say."
"What''s it like, Fleer? Owning your own business, being your own boss?"
Fleer paused for a moment.
"Well," he said carefully, "it''s not without its challenges. Why do you ask?"
"I just... want to know if there''s a way out. A fallback, or something. If things go badly on Monday."
Fleer stared over the ramshackle warehouse across the way, deep into the stars.
"It''s harder. But it''s better. Even if I could, I would never go back now. I had to follow my conscience. I got out to where I could make my own decisions."
"How did you do it?"
Fleer stared at him in surprise for a moment.
"You just walk away. Put it all aside. The whole lifestyle, the cachet, the fame, the influence, you just drop it. Focus on what''s important."
"I can''t do that. People depend on me. Lives, jobs, plans, power: they need my touch, a steady hand and bold leadership--"
"That''s a lie. If you vanished, they''d replace you in a month. Less. And then talk bad about you once you were gone."
Adler sneered a little.
"Well I''ve got people who have power over me, too. Dangerous people. But I guess you wouldn''t know about that."
"There''s no power over you unless you accept it. In the corporate world, for the most part they can''t force you to do anything. They can just stop giving you things. All the stuff I used to think was so important-- the loft up in the Corporate district, the latest model gravcar, the trips, the safety-- I mean, they''re all fun and nice, but if you''re not careful they become the golden shackles. And as long as you hold on to all that stuff, then they''ve got a hold on you. It''s the only prison I know of where you keep yourself locked in."
"But what about the power? How could you walk away from the power?"
Fleer shrugged.
"I never had that much power, I guess."
Adler''s sneer deepened.
"You mean you never took it. You know what it''s like near the top. You have to have that power to survive."
Fleer shook his head.
"I don''t think so. Power is just a way of pretending you can control things. But you really can''t. All the power in the world won''t change that."
Adler clammed up for a few minutes, looking around at the dingy, run-down surroundings.
"I couldn''t live like this," he said finally. "I''ve got standards. I don''t know how you do it. I''d never be able to stand it."
"And I couldn''t live like you do. I''ve seen both sides, and I know what it takes to keep-- that lifestyle."
"You just didn''t have a choice," Adler shot back. "You screwed up and then you ran. And now you''re stuck out here in the slums with the freaks. I feel for you," Adler cooed. "I really do, but you can''t possibly expect me to believe you like this," he gestured around their ramshackle surroundings, "better than the good corporate life."
"I did have a choice," Fleer said quietly. "But I couldn''t bear the cost."
"Toots, noots McGoots!" Roger said, poking his head out of the doorway. He was wearing a party hat with spangly trim, and holding out two oranges. Fleer smiled.
"I''ll be in shortly, Roger. Thank you."
Roger shrugged and went back inside.
A sleek gray gravcar that very clearly did not belong in the area thrummed up.
"Well, good luck with your ''better life''," said Adler, his practiced sneer fully resurfacing. "I''ll be back in my penthouse, crying it out on silk sheets."
"It''s so much more than that," Fleer said sadly, but Adler was already in the car.
Adler slammed the door, and the gravcar hummed away.
Fleer stood outside somberly for a moment, reflecting. Suddenly remembering the new fatness of Riotfish''s bank account, he perked up a little and went inside.
Time to pay some bills. 26 - Sparring With Pearce
The video on Fleer''s screen chattered, went blocky, then began to clear. Fleer turned up the volume to hear over the celebration in the rec room.
The grim visage of his creditor stabilized.
"I''m afraid you misunderstand, Mr. Fleer. The full amount must be paid by the deadline, no exceptions. While Crediture appreciates your partial payment, it does not extend or modify the deadline."
"But that was 200,000 credits!" Fleer cried.
"The amount is immaterial, unless it is the full amount due."
"That''s ridiculous! We gave you all this money! Doesn''t this prove we can pay you back?"
"It does not. Your business is a poor risk, just as it was the last time we spoke. You have not expanded your client base. You have not improved operations. You have not increased your marketability. The partial payment changes none of those things. Both you and Crediture are still in the same situation, except that now Crediture stands to lose slightly less money than before."
Fleer slammed a fist down on his desk.
"We''re a real business! We can do this! Just back off of us for one minute!"
"I did," Pearce said in his steady, bloodless tone. "And I gave you six more weeks. If I give you another six, you''ll be back again asking for more time. One more month. One more week. And in the end, you will still go under."
"How do you think you''ll get your money back if we''re defunct, huh?"
"It is not my money," Pearce corrected, "it''s Crediture''s money. We will take what we can out of your remaining assets. If you''re wise, and declare bankruptcy, this will be a civil and orderly process. If you insist on continuing with this foolishness, the whole matter will be brought into arbitration. And please don''t harbor any notions of hiding or selling off assets. Everything leaves a paper trail, and arbitration will go especially poorly for you. I''ve known a number of bankruptcy mediators, and they are all quite humorless in this regard."
Fleer fumed. 200,000 credits, and he could have done all kinds of things with that money, and instead he had flushed it down the debt-hole. How could he have been so dumb? Why didn''t he check before putting that money against the debt?
Carefully gathering together what was left of his temper, Fleer forced calmness into his voice.
"So perhaps if we were able to make another payment, to bring us up to--
"No. You fail to understand. You act as though you and your business are a special case, but I assure you I have seen this play out more times than you can imagine. I did not give you an extra six weeks to pay back the loan, I gave you six weeks to get your affairs in order. I do not harbor any delusions about how this will end. You should not either. It''s time to put these childish dreams behind you, Mr. Fleer."
Fleer drew a shaky breath.
"Can I have the money back, then?"
Pearce gave him a level stare that lasted far too long to be comfortable. Fleer smiled insincerely. Pearce''s image was so still that Fleer nearly checked to see if the video had frozen again when Pearce finally spoke.
"It is outside policy for Crediture to return funds that have been paid for a legitimate debt."This narrative has been purloined without the author''s approval. Report any appearances on Amazon.
"Look, you have to give me something, here! I have to run a business to pay you back! Then Crediture wouldn''t lose any money. Wouldn''t that be better?"
"Better is not relevant," Pearce said. "Statistically speaking, the chances of Riotfish ever paying this debt-- even so much as the majority of this debt-- are absurdly low."
Exhausted, Fleer sagged in his seat. Throwing arguments at Pearce was like throwing eggs at a tank.
"We''ll... come up with the rest of the money, then."
"I appreciate the sentiment, even though that outcome is astronomically unlikely."
The video blipped off, leaving Fleer staring dumbly at the spreadsheets that had seemed so hopeful just an hour ago.
D''khara stepped away from the door on rubbery legs. He had come to tell Fleer dinner was ready, but he had accidentally overheard part of Fleer''s conversation with Pearce instead.
D''khara was no businessman, but he could add and read a calendar.
At least he didn''t have to worry about his 90-day evaluation any more. You can''t be fired from a company that''s out of business.
He wandered back to the party with a deeply troubled expression.
Fleer held his head in both hands. With a slow, dragging slide he let his head fall forward and thud heavily into the desk.
The hard wood pressed into his forehead. He tried to think through the numbers, but they kept slipping away, sucked into a dark hole of despair that yawned wider every time he circled his options.
310,000 credits. Four weeks.
They had succeeded, with the Adler job. They''d gone for the spec work and they''d succeeded beyond any reasonable measure. Getting any money out of spec work was like hitting five numbers in the lottery, and making the full amount was hitting all six. Making above the rate was absolutely unheard of-- much less making more than two and a half times the rate.
They''d done all that, risked so much, earned above and beyond, and it wasn''t enough.
It wasn''t enough.
He kept trying to think his way around it, but two thoughts kept swimming back to the forefront of his mind.
They couldn''t earn the money. They just weren''t good enough.
He wasn''t good enough.
He''d been a fool to ever think he was.
Maybe Adler was right. Fleer did everything wrong.
He dragged himself up to a standing position. He stood there for a long moment, willing his feet to move. Eventually, he overcame inertia and forced one foot in front of another, trudging into the rec room with no clear plan. The team needed to know.
The energy of the celebration had died down a bit, and everyone was taking their ease and chatting.
"Boss-man, we got a solid score," Little Timmy said. "Any chance we''re getting a new holopad?"
Fleer''s brain rolled around, trying to make sense of Little Timmy''s question. Buy a holopad? Why not buy the moon while they were at it?
"Don''t be silly," Oliver answered. "We still need to be mindful of the budget!"
"Pff. We could be mindful of the budget with a new holopad. Just saying."
"But Little Timmy, isn''t it wonderful to be out from under the shadow of failure? Now things can go back to normal. We''re not contending with an existential threat any longer!"
"Whatever. I guess."
"I agree with Mr. Oliver," Mrs. Meade chimed in. "Riotfish has meant so much to me over the years, and I''m very pleased that we''ve weathered the storm. I knew you boys could do what it took to save us. Especially Mr. Fleer. He did such a wonderful job with everything." She tottered over and wrapped him in a generous hug.
Fleer stood trapped, like a deer locked onto the oncoming headlights of an eighteen-wheeler, with forty tons of doom hurtling toward him.
"Well, uh, I... thank you, but..."
"So what''s next, David?" Oliver asked.
Fleer grinned uncertainly. Everybody looked at him, waiting, faces eager and eyes aglow.
"Well, Oliver... we... will..."
"Yes?"
"We can go back just to the way things were, of course." he finished in a watery voice. "We''ll pay more attention to our debts with Crediture, naturally. No sense in antagonizing Mr. Pearce, is there? Ha ha."
D''khara''s mouth dropped open.
"That''s very true, very true," Oliver said, grinning with all his huge wide mouth. "Well, I''m quite relieved that all that''s behind us. It will be good to get back to work."
"Ha ha, yes. Well, I''m going to go wrap up some paperwork. You all enjoy yourselves. Good night." So saying, he walked back to his office on stiff legs.
D''khara, his face crumpling into a grimace of disapproval, stormed back to his bunk. 27 - Finding a New Contract
The next morning, Fleer slumped at his desk, arms hanging down by the sides of his chair.
He felt bad about lying last night. But he couldn''t bring himself to crush them. Not while everybody was celebrating. Especially Mrs. Meade. And Oliver. It would have been like kicking a puppy. A nine-foot tall puppy.
So that was that. Now he''d have to pick himself up and go tell them they''d failed.
Fleer sighed and he turned his face away from the door. They needed to know. He had to tell everybody.
Then again... did he have to tell everybody today?
After all, Pearce wasn''t going to file the default for another four weeks. They couldn''t earn the money, but they could still work. He could let the Riotfish enjoy these last few weeks as a team, at least.
Yes, that made sense. He could get a little head space to think up a good way to break the news to everyone, and they''d have the opportunity to do a little more work in the interim.
He nodded to himself. Yes. That was a good plan.
Relieved, he pulled up the Guild''s open jobs board, and spent a few minutes idly spinning through the long list of glossy jobs with six-figure fees, briefly lusting after them. He put them away.
Focus on today''s work. For all that it mattered.
He didn''t even look at the spec jobs board. He was just running down the clock, there was no point getting the Riotfish into something too dangerous for them to handle again.
He clicked on the "SMALL TEAM" filter, and the list shrank sharply, as did the fees. He clicked on the "NO AIR SUPPORT" filter, and the list shrank again. "NON-TRADITIONAL TACTICS", "NO CORPORATE SPONSORSHIP", "SHORT TERM", "APOLITICAL"; the list dwindled with each click. Finally, he clicked "NO GUILD ASSOCIATION" and was faced with only three jobs.
Three.
It was good that they weren''t depending on steady work now.
The first job was an extraction from a prison camp in the Midwest. Political prisoners, but they weren''t picky about who got them out. The pay was... well, it was good that the pay rate was irrelevant.
He straightened up, put on his best sales face, and pressed the call button.
His desktop happily chirped at him and showed him a video feed of his own face while he waited for someone to pick up on the other end.
bleep beeble-bee bleep
bleep beeble-bee bleep
bleep beeble-bee bleep
"We''re sorry, the party you are trying to reach is unavailable. Would you like to leave a message?" the computer asked.
"Yes!" he replied. "My name is David Fleer, of Riotfish, Inc. We''re a mercenary outfit operating out of Concordium, and we specialize in small operations and tricky situations. I''m contacting you today in response to your posting on the Guild board for a prisoner extraction. Our team has decades of experience in just your situation, and we''re well-equipped to--"
Suddenly an official-looking seal appeared on the screen, followed by a robotic voice, interrupting his spiel.
"We''re sorry, the detainee you are trying to reach has been terminated. This message box is now owned by MEDICORP. MEDICORP thanks you for your interest, and hopes that you will trust MEDICORP in the future for your detainment needs. Goodbye."
And the line went dead.
Fleer deflated. Well, that was why the Guild insisted that customers pay for the listing in advance, he supposed.
He clicked the next job, straightening himself.
bleep beeble-bee bleep
bleep beeble-bee blee--
"DO YOU HAVE WHAT IT TAKES TO BECOME THE ULTIMATE CHAMPION? X-S GAMES HAS YOU COVERED! PLAY THE TOP RATED CYBER-COMBAT GAME, JUST LIKE A REAL MERCENARY! MANAGE YOUR CREW AND LEAD THEM TO--"
Fleer slapped the disconnect button, and viciously jabbed the "Report Spam" link on the listing.
Wearily he clicked on the third listing. Something about perimeter defense, and the point of contact was someone whose name looked as though he had sprayed random vowels across the screen, sprinkling in just enough consonants to make it pronounceable. Probably another foreign scam. Fleer clicked in.
bleep beeble-bee bleep
bleep beeble-bee bleep
"Halo?"
Fleer started. Usually these scams were shut down quickly, with the perpetrators arrested and their line disconnected before anybody could get through.
Not that the image made the client seem any less sketchy. The video was choppy, with terrible artifacting, and the image in the video was upside down, meaning the camera had been mounted wrong. As difficult as it was to make out any features past the technological hurdles, Fleer could see that the speaker was a weathered old man, rough and lumpy and toothless and wearing bib overalls.
"Hello? Yes! Yes, I''m sorry, I may have gotten the wrong contact. I was calling for a Mr..."
He paused at the name Daugereaux.
"Mister, uh, Dow-gear-ee-ax?"
"May, dass not my name," came back a rusty voice thick with a Cajun accent. "You say it Doh-zhuh-row, shah."This story originates from Royal Road. Ensure the author gets the support they deserve by reading it there.
"Oh, I do apologize, Mr., uh, ''Doe-juh-roe''. I''m calling you today about--"
"''Bout de awlmen, I know."
"About the what now?"
"Dem awlmen done come back on my land. I got to get ''em out, dey about to worry me half to deat''."
"Awlmen... you mean oil men?"
"Dat''s what I said, ain''t you speak no good English?"
"Yes. Sir. So. Oil men?" Fleer was completely lost. "Like... men made of oil?"
The old Cajun blew his lips out. A man with no teeth has a lot of lip to blow out, and Daugereaux had refined the practice to a rich art form that had its own subtleties and overtones.
"No. Like, de men dat come on your land and try to take it from you for de awl rights? Awl men?"
"Oh! Right. Yes, sorry. Petroleum execs. You say they''re on your land? What are they doing there?"
"Well, dey ain''t execs. Dese boys is de soldiering kind. Dey ain''t wanna talk to me much. I done run ''em off last time, but dey brought more fellas dis go-round."
"Last time? They''ve been on your land before? When was this?"
"Aw, shoooo, hmm. I guess de firs'' time dey come was... fifty-five years ago? Maybe only fifty, shah, my memory''s not so good. Den after dat, dey don''t come back for a long time, den dese new boys start showing up about two weeks ago."
"Wait, wait, so you haven''t had any trouble for fifty years, then suddenly troops started showing up? Are you sure they''re from the same oil company?"
"Shah, listen, I live me in a swamp. Out here, it''s de awl rights or nothin''. I mean, de catfishin'' is pretty good, but it ain''t dat good."
"Interesting. Which corporate territory are you in? Can''t you call in local security to deal with them?"
"Oh, we''s un-corp''rated out here." Fleer blinked. "We jus'' doin'' our own little thing."
"Unincorporated? Interesting. I didn''t realize there was any unincorporated land left in North America. Or anywhere, for that matter." Fleer perked up a little.
"Well dat is why de awl companies is all hot and bothered to get dey hands on my land. Don''t belong to nobody but me an Ma Daugereaux."
"Interesting. I''d be curious to hear how that happened. In any case, I''ll send you an information packet on our company. It has some details about our operations and our crew. I''ll also send some instructions on what data you can send us to help the process along, if you choose to work with us. In the meantime, I''ll discuss this with my lead strategist. Can we schedule a time to talk again?"
"Yeah, yeah, I''m gonna send you all dem details. You jus'' call me back when you want to come on down, shah. Bye!"
The screen blipped off, leaving Fleer bemused.
Unincorporated. His brow twisted in thought. Something very strange was going on here. He couldn''t put it together yet, but a tiny flicker of hope sparked in him.
Perhaps this job was more than it seemed. Perhaps he could find more here than was obvious from the surface.
Perhaps he wouldn''t have to tell the crew about his call with Pearce. If they could earn enough to get some leeway from Pearce... well, it wouldn''t be dishonest at that point to keep quiet about their situation. Would it?
He pulled up some geographical records to research.
It was later that day when Fleer and Oliver met over the projector table.
"He''s been looking for someone for a while," Fleer began. "He sent us over a workup of what he needs. I think he was a little confused about how to do some proper tagging on the Guild jobs, so almost nobody saw it."
"Or perhaps they considered what he was paying," Oliver suggested, eyeing the price listed on the contract. "30,000 credits? That''s hardly enough to cover our expenses."
"It''s something, Oliver."
Oliver nodded grimly, and Fleer continued.
"So he and his wife live on this property down near the Gulf. It''s mostly swampland, but it''s their home, and he''s worried about someone he calls ''the oilmen''."
"Ominous," Oliver muttered.
"He seems to think some petrocorp is angling for the mineral rights on his land. It sounds like he''s refused to sell to them before, so they''re sending heavies to soften him up. He wants to hire someone to come out and secure the property, run off any troublemakers, and keep an eye on things for a while. With a little luck, we could stretch this out, earn a little more."
"At that rate?" Oliver asked.
Fleer shrugged.
"I''m not sure I understand how this helps us. We would need to transport the entire crew nearly a thousand miles to watch over a senile Acadian in a swamp for nearly no money. How can we possibly make a profit on this?"
Fleer grew very still for a moment, and Oliver instantly regretted his tone.
"Negotiations are still open," Fleer said quietly. "We can at least talk to the man. What else would you have me do?"
"Right, right, of course we can talk to him," Oliver hastily agreed. "Sorry, I just, you know, was thinking about the, how we could, um. Yeah, let''s call him."
"Besides, there''s something else going on here. I think there could be other opportunities hiding in this."
Fleer punched up Daugereaux'' contact information and patiently waited out the beebley-bleeps. The old man''s face appeared on the screen again, right side up this time.
"Statue?" Daugereaux asked.
"I''m sorry?" Fleer asked, taken aback.
"S''datchoo?" Daugereaux repeated more carefully.
Fleer paused for a moment.
"I''m sorry, I really don''t--"
"Is. Dat. You?" Daugereaux said slowly. "You dem fellows wit'' de guns and all?"
"Oh! Yes! Yes, I''m David Fleer, with Riotfish, Inc. and with me this afternoon is my lead strategist, Oliver Gutshell." Oliver leaned into the view of the camera and waved awkwardly.
"Hooo you a big boy, aintcha?" Daugereaux observed. "Now if dat ain''t a thing. I ain''t met me a orc since, oh must be since ''ninety-five or so. Well, go on wich you."
"Yes, we received the data and the maps of your land; thank you so much for that. We had a few questions about the workup. This property you''re wanting to secure, it belongs to you alone?"
"Oh, yah. It was deeded to my great-grandaddy in about, oh, 2327 I think. My parrain passed it on to me in about ''86, when I was jus'' eighteen years old." Fleer''s eyebrows shot up, and he listened with half an ear as he started pulling up his research and flicking data onto the projector table. "We been living on dis land since den. Dem awlmen tried to take it, but we done showed dem de error of dere ways, good and hard."
"Interesting. Tell me more about these oilmen."
"It''s dem dang corpratations! Dey been coming around wanting de awl rights on all my land. Dey come and try to scare off de old folks, so dey can take dat land on the cheap. But me and Ma don''t scare so easy."
"So they''re trying to intimidate you?"
"Well, dey used to would come around at night and fire off guns by de house, or dey would cut up a old dead dog and leave it on de porch, things like dat. But dey ain''t doin'' all dat no more."
"No more? They''ve stopped trying to intimidate you?"
"Well, chief, dis new crew ain''t doin'' all dat. Dey just got a bunch of more men, cuttin'' trees and making dem catches all over my proppity.
"Catches?" Oliver asked.
"Catches, you know, wit'' guns and all."
"Oh, weapons caches," Fleer replied, beginning to catch on to the Cajun''s speech patterns. "Strange, if they''re looking to intimidate you, why stockpile weapons?"
"May, I don''t know, but some of dem guns gone for a pretty good price."
"You''ve been... appropriating goods from their caches?"
"Me? Naw, I never appropriated nothin''. I been stealing dey guns, though. I don''t think dey''ll notice, dey got like fourteen of dem catches by now."
Fleer and Oliver looked at each other.
"Fourteen weapon caches? Are you sure about that?"
"Yep. Could be more now. I''m getting too old to keep up wit dese young bucks. Dey cuttin'' down a bunch of my trees and stompin'' all around on my land scaring away de birds and fish, so a man cain''t hardly catch him nothin'' to eat."
Fleer was frantically shuffling data around on the table. He peered very intently at it for a moment.
"These trees they''re cutting down, Mr. Daugereaux, are they doing it in a more-or-less straight line? North-south? Close to the west side of your property?"
"Dat is ekzackly correct. Now how you knowed dat?"
Fleer forced down a manic grin, keeping his face calm, professional.
"I think I have an idea of what''s going on, Mr. Daugereaux, and I can say that Riotfish, Inc. would be happy to accept your contract to secure your land." He held up a hand as Oliver opened his mouth to object. "...pending approval from our lead strategist, of course. However, there are a few items I think we''ll need to discuss, especially around consideration of expenses..." 28 - The Hidden Opportunity
It was an hour later when they finished the call. Daugereaux was a shrewd negotiator, and while Fleer had been able to squeeze some extra concessions out of the old Cajun, he hadn''t gotten nearly as much as he''d thought he would. He slumped back, exhausted and satisfied.
Oliver, who had tuned out for most of the negotiations, perked up.
"Okay David, so what did you find? You would never have jumped on a contract that quickly unless you detected another angle in it."
Fleer''s eyes crinkled ever so slightly in a not-quite smile.
"Look at the table, Oliver. Tell me what you see."
Oliver dragged a thick finger through the glowing data flowing along the table''s surface, considering.
"Hmm. There are land deeds, corporate bylaws, asset sheets. It''s just a jumble, as far as I can tell."
"Think it through. Think of the men on Daugereaux'' land. What are they doing?"
"Well nothing to do with Daugereaux, I''d imagine. Fourteen weapons caches? Even for a tough old Cajun they wouldn''t need that much."
Fleer nodded. Oliver continued.
"So they''re gearing up for something. Something on Daugereaux'' land maybe?" Oliver scanned the land survey of Daugereaux'' property, and shook his head. "I''m not seeing it."
"I''ll give you two clues. One is about when he got the land."
"Didn''t his grandfather give it to him?"
"Something like that, but when?"
Oliver searched his memory. "2327, was it?"
"Right. And for ten bonus points on your history quiz, when did the second Corporate Land Grab happen?"
"2395, I think. So... if this deed is indeed legitimate, and it''s been constantly occupied by the Daugereaux family, then that land was never part of any corporation''s holdings. It''s an independent territory?"
"Exactly. Just like Concordium. He literally lives on 1,000 acres of the Daugereaux Nation. A nation that only has two old people to defend it."
"So it makes an ideal staging point to launch an operation, since there won''t be anybody to raise a fuss about the movement of troops on their soil. Except for Mr. Daugereaux. And us, I guess."
"That''s exactly right. So what are they staging for?"
Oliver sifted through more of the data on the desk. He pulled up a map of Daugereaux'' land and the surrounding areas. It was a fairly clean satellite image, with territory borders clearly marked out.
"Well, there''s not much here. Their land''s butted up against this corporate territory to the north. Cryocorp."
Fleer nodded. Oliver continued, reading through paperwork.
"So Cryocorp has a facility here. Some kind of holdings facility. Hm."
Fleer decided to spin out some corporate history while Oliver read through the company''s asset sheets and background data.
"Cryocorp," he said, "was founded about twenty years after the second Land Grab by Gerald Harrigan. He carved out a little niche down there near the Gulf of Mexico, producing parts for cryogenic freezers, long-haul space cruisers and such."
"Harrigan was sharp, his business flourished, and everybody was happy for a while. He had two sons, each of which he privately promised the entire business to, but he would never put anything down on paper. He wanted his sons to compete for his company. And they did. Viciously."
Fleer paused and rubbed the bridge of his nose.
"Problem was," he continued, "neither of them could maintain a clear advantage over the other. They fought, you know, in the corporate way, but it was a perfect stalemate, and Harrigan liked it that way. He kept them going at each other, boosting whichever one was at a disadvantage, and undercutting him once he was gaining power. This is not all that unusual, but as he aged, he became eccentric."
"Isn''t that rich-people-speak for ''crazy''?" Oliver asked.
"Precisely. He became delusional, paranoid. Had his mansion torn down because he claimed the windows were staring at him and the hallways whispered. He had it rebuilt into a windowless cube. It''s still kind of a tourist attraction today. He dotted his property with bunkers, and started hiring people to follow him around yelling things in a language nobody recognized, to keep ''them'' at bay."
"''Them'' who?"
"Nobody knows."Taken from Royal Road, this narrative should be reported if found on Amazon.
"Yep. Sounds crazy."
"Anyway, his focus was on whatever he believed was going on, not his company. Between that and his sons'' constant fight for control, Cryocorp dwindled, fast. Harrigan cast around for something to blame. He became quite the connoisseur of conspiracy theories. At that time he started drastically shifting the company''s assets to protect what they had left."
Oliver looked through the asset sheets. "Their asset mix is a little concentrated. Mostly hard assets. Gold?" Fleer nodded. "What kind of corporation holds that much gold?"
"One with an obsessed maniac at the helm."
"You know an awful lot about this company, David."
"It was all over the newsfeeds a few years ago, before you were in town. Big scandal. You know how the news is: ''Will Cryocorp Survive?'', a bunch of human-interest stories about the employees that would be out of work, and financial and military analysis about how the land would be divided up when they imploded."
"So what happened? With the brothers, I mean?"
"Harrigan passed away suddenly, and his sons started cooperating with each other. The brothers have been getting the company back on track. It''s nothing like it once was, but they''re doing alright. They had to take the company public, to survive. Even so, they''ve been cash-thin, had to make a bunch of cuts and borrow some money to stay afloat, but they''ve got a lot of gold they can borrow against."
Oliver considered all this for a moment.
"It''s quite an interesting story, but what does that have to do with Daugereaux?"
"Think about it. What''s the problem with gold?"
"I''m not sure. It''d be hard to liquidate much at once, I''d imagine."
"True, but not quite what I was thinking. What''s another problem with physical money?"
"People want to steal it. You have to keep it secure?"
"Exactly."
"So that''s this facility?" Oliver asked.
"Precisely."
"So there''s a large building full of gold in the middle of nowhere. I think I''m starting to see what these ''oilmen'' are staging up for."
Fleer sat back with a satisfied grin.
"Very good, Oliver. Now the first rule of a burglary is that you have to get away. Look at the surrounding area and tell me what you see."
"I can see why nobody''s tried to infiltrate that facility. Swampland and trees. One road in or out, and I strongly suspect the tree cover has been cleared to expose the road for air support. The photos of the facility aren''t the best, but I see what looks like a helipad. You could grab the gold, but you''d never escape in one piece." Oliver nodded as he began to understand. "That''s how you knew where they were cutting the trees. They''re clearing a path through Daugereaux'' land to take the gold through. Right here, north-south, like you said. That will give them a direct route to the highway. If they can get there, they can go any direction. Free and clear."
Fleer nodded.
"Now you''ve got it."
"So where do we come in? You''re thinking we should stop them? Try to get some kind of reward?"
"Not quite. See, once that gold is on Daugereaux'' land, a new set of rules comes into play. There are no corporate agreements with what we might call the Daugereaux Nation. The ''Stable Powers'' Default Treaties don''t apply. And under the old treasure laws, Daugereaux is not obligated to return that to Cryocorp, since it was brought into his sovereign nation during the commission of a crime."
Oliver''s brow crinkled.
"I don''t think I like where this is going," he said.
"Hear me out. Since we''ll be defending his land under contract, that triggers the ''Equipment and Found Goods'' clause of our standard contract. It''s simple enough, and nobody thinks of it, but there''s a finder''s fee of 10%. We could conceivably carve out a slice of that stash."
Oliver stared levelly at Fleer for a moment.
"That''s why you took the contract," he said. "You don''t care about Daugereaux, you just want a crack at that gold."
Fleer shrugged uncomfortably.
"We still owe a lot of credits, Oliver. This represents our best shot at getting that monkey off our backs."
Oliver worried at a thumbnail.
"But David, we know they''re going to commit a crime. We have to stop it."
"We can''t," Fleer replied flatly. "Legally speaking, we can''t go onto Cryocorp land without cause. Corporate law, jurisdiction and what-all. If we step foot on Cryocorp land without a contract, we''ll be the criminals. And we don''t know that anybody is going to commit a crime, we''ve just got a strong suspicion."
"We should tell Cryocorp."
Fleer nodded slowly.
"We could. Do you know who''s pulling off the heist?"
Oliver shook his head.
"Me neither," Fleer said. "And since I don''t know which megacorp is running this operation, I won''t know which rich and powerful people I''ve suddenly made hate me. If we do this under the Daugereaux contract, we''re covered. Work for hire and all that. If we go off white-knighting, well, a lot of companies would see that as a declaration of intent to ally, or a power play. I don''t have anything against Cryocorp, but I don''t want to be stuck with them as an ally all of a sudden, and we''re nowhere near big enough to survive any kind of power grab. We''d be ground up by bigger players before the message was finished transmitting."
Oliver deflated a little.
"But David, we can''t... profit from this!"
"Daugereaux will certainly profit, if we can run them off his land. If we''re smart about how we do it, we can maximize his profit. We''ll have earned that 10%, and then some."
Oliver frowned.
"I just don''t want to think of myself making money that way. I don''t think I want to do this op."
Fleer nodded.
"Every contract Riotfish, Inc. accepts is strictly voluntary for every employee. You do not have to participate in any contract you don''t want to." Fleer punched a few numbers into a spreadsheet on his datapad and pulled in some data. He flung the numbers out onto the table.
"What''s this?" Oliver asked.
"An estimate. Building volume, gold density, local infrastructure... that''s a back-of-the-envelope calculation of how much gold is in that facility."
Oliver''s face grew very still as Fleer flicked another document onto the table.
"That''s this morning''s bid price on the gold exchange. I''ll let you do the rest of the math."
Oliver stared wordlessly at the numbers.
"Ten percent of that?" he asked finally.
Fleer shrugged.
"Could be. I''ll admit that these numbers are a lot of guesses and maybes. But they''re feasible. Naturally, each of you would get your contractual share. And there would be plenty left over to pay off Pearce. And fix this place up. Or just buy a new place. And have some left over. A lot left over."
Oliver was quiet for a bit.
"We should tell Daugereaux, at least."
"I agree. I''ll let you tell him all about it at our next contact. We should have at least one more before we head down."
Oliver chewed on his thumbnail, riveted to the numbers on the table. 29 - Preparing for Departure
Once Fleer was alone in his office, he let out a little squeal of delight and spun around in his office chair.
Gold! Wonderful stuff!
This was amazing! Even if his very conservative calculations were two times too high, there was still enough gold there to fundamentally transform the Riotfish.
Pay off Pearce? Pfft. Maybe he could offer Pearce a loan!
That much money would be enough to staff up with real professionals, and get some real equipment. Serious equipment. Replace the Battle Wagon with something that had been manufactured during his lifetime. A fleet of them. Maybe even start a small air support team.
What couldn''t he do with that much money?
This was their moonshot. If they could pull this off, he could finally build Riotfish into a real mercenary outfit, and all their problems would go away.
He was trying hard not to pre-count unhatched chickens, but the chickens were so enormous and beautiful.
Fleer sat in his office, euphoric and daydreaming.
The call with Daugereaux the next day went well for Fleer. He was smooth and practiced, getting the paperwork handled, preliminary payments set up, soothing concerns, and establishing timetables. Oliver sat in the background, perspiring. Dealing with people was Fleer''s superpower. It just terrified Oliver.
"And we''ll need your signature on these releases before we can accept payment," Fleer concluded. "If you could just thumb this clause here..."
"Yah, yah, all dat paperwork, I know how dey do dat," Daugereaux groused. "I live in de swamp, but I ain''t some backwoods know-nothin''." The screen blinked blue, indicating that Daugereaux had signed off on his part of the contract.
"Before we go," Fleer added, "my associate Mr. Gutshell would like to apprise you of some speculation we''ve been engaging in."
"Um, y-yes," stuttered Oliver, moving forward into the camera. "Yes. You see, um, Mr. Daugereaux, there is a company next to your property with a history of mismanagement, um, and quite a lot of gold. For collateral, to um, re-establish themselves after--" Oliver watched Daugereaux'' face glaze into incomprehension. "Which, um, isn''t relevant, I guess. We think maybe the oilmen on your land are trying to, um, take it. The gold, I mean."
"Uh huh," said Daugereaux, peering suspiciously.
"Well, if they do and it ends up on your land, under um, some obscure sovereignty laws, what they leave, could, um, be yours."
"So you telling me dat de corpratation is going to put gold onto my land?"
"No! I mean, yes, maybe, but we don''t know which one. Which, uh, is why we can''t say anything to them. The other corpratat-- corporation. The one with the gold, I mean. For which we''d be eligible for a finder''s fee, per the contract. If you understand what I''m saying."
"I got to say, you ain''t makin'' me a whole lotta sense."
"It''s, um. Complicated," Oliver finished miserably.
Daugereaux sat back.
"You got you a conscience," he said. "You got you a big heart, and you want to be honest. I appreciate dat. I don'' want you to worry, I done read de contract, and I understanded it, even dem squiggly lawyery bits. I trust you to do de right thing by me."
Oliver nodded, and sat back quietly.
"Dis has been a comfort to me," Daugereaux concluded. "I see y''all next week, and we gon'' feed you boys, and den get dese couyons off my land."
"Yes sir, Mr. Daugereaux, we are looking forward to it," Fleer cut in.
"Sounds good. We''ll talk to y''all den."
He signed off.
Fleer sat back.
"So," he said. "What should we do about Mrs. Meade?"
"What do you mean?"
"You''ve had a chance to review the environmental specs? The soft ground and high water of the swampland, the density of the trees-- the Battle Wagon is just not going to work in there. It may not even be able to get back there at all. I was thinking we''d hire a local to get us back to Daugereaux'' property, but that leaves the question of what to do with Mrs. Meade. I don''t think we want to drag her along into a firefight."
"Weelllll," Oliver said, "I suspect that she''d fare better than you''d think. But I agree, it wouldn''t be proper to have her in a swamp. Should we leave her here at HQ?"
They considered this for a moment.
"She''s liable to be awfully lonely," Fleer said. "We''ll probably be gone a couple weeks."
"And what if something happened? She wouldn''t have anybody to help her out."
"Yeah, Little Timmy always has to help her turn on the holovid, because the remote confuses her. And I know you get her things from the top shelf in the kitchen."
"She could drive us most of the way, just not back into the swamp. Maybe we could put her up in a hotel?"The narrative has been taken without permission. Report any sightings.
"Same problem, except now she''s lonely and stuck in a tiny hotel room instead of the HQ."
They considered some more.
"What about a resort?" Oliver asked.
"That might be stretching the travel budget," Fleer said. "But I like the idea of giving her a little vacation, maybe get her into some nature."
"How about a cabin or something? Could we retain a tour guide or someone to kind of take her around town, keep her occupied? Some kind of caretaker or entertainer?"
"Could be." Fleer nodded. "Maybe so. That''s got possibilities. Someone to keep an eye on her and keep her from getting too lonely. That will take a little finagling. Why don''t you look at getting that set up, Oliver?"
"Um. I would be happy to, David, but I''ve got to finish prepping for this. I need to sort out the topographical maps and plan out our routes, lines of defense, and such. I''ve got a pile to do before we head out."
"Me too. I''ll delegate this to someone else, then. Hmm. Little Timmy?"
They both spent a brief moment in their imaginations.
"So, not Little Timmy, then. He and Roger are-- more suited to other pursuits. I guess that just leaves Mrs. Meade. Problem is, she''ll undercut herself, go cheaper than she should."
"What about D''khara?" Oliver asked.
"Oh! Oh, right! I, uh, forgot about him," Fleer said, grimacing. "I''ve been running around so much lately, I haven''t built him into my mental model of the company yet. Yeah, that would be a great job for D''khara. Dwarves are supposed to be skilled negotiators, right?"
Oliver shrugged.
"Well, I''ll get him on that this afternoon. Now, let''s talk about these routes through Daugereaux'' land..."
D''khara was still terrified about his 90-day eval, but that worry was a dim buzzing in the back of his mind now. He had so many things to worry about that he was having to line them up in his mind so he could fret about them one at a time.
Fleer''s obvious lie about Pearce had shocked him right down to his toes, and he''d spent the rest of the evening furious and deeply troubled.
But when the announcement of the Daugereaux job-- and the possibility of a massive payout of gold-- had come through the next day, suddenly it all made sense.
Fleer was a clever businessman. He''d clearly had this job in his back pocket the whole time, and he didn''t want to discourage or panic anybody, so he''d not said anything about the call with Pearce. And why should he? If everybody stayed focused and pulled this off, Pearce would be a vague, unpleasant memory. And letting everybody think they were past the crisis would let them focus on the job at hand instead of worrying about business stuff.
Fleer was playing Kasparov-level chess while D''khara was still trying to remember the rules to checkers.
D''khara had a lot to learn about good business strategy.
So he''d been relieved, but he''d accidentally eavesdropped, and now he knew the stakes.
Now more than ever, he couldn''t afford to screw up. All he had to do was execute flawlessly. Which would be great if he could even do the one little task Fleer had given him.
D''khara glared at the screen. He had spent nearly a week now fighting this stupid machine, and mostly losing. He was in the armory, at the small desk in front of the computer Fleer had set up for him when he''d been hired. The computer he had refused to touch until he had to.
One week he had spent learning to use the computer and navigate the holonet, in order to try and find lodging, of all things, and all the searching and comparing and pricing and poking slowly through lists and maps and reviews and he had finally selected a cabin, and finally gotten the credit chit from Fleer and finally gotten all the information put in to rent the stupid thing, and had put in the payment chit and thought he was almost done with this particular brand of torment.
"Please enter your payment information," the computer said.
"I entered my payment information, you stupid grachit!" he hollered. "I entered it three times!" He was hammering the desk with his fist by this point. "Now you take my payment before I grind your silicon to make lamination steel!
D''khara worked very well with machinery at any level of complexity, right up to software. Then it all went sideways. They''d had computers in the mines, naturally, but they were not something he''d ever cared to work with much.
He carefully punched in the information from the payment chit again, pressing quite a bit more firmly than was strictly necessary to enter the data.
"Your payment information is incorrect," the computer said.
"Please enter your payment information," it said.
"Q''drat!" he barked, slamming a fist down on the keyboard. The blow forced a handful of keycaps loose and they whizzed off into various corners of the room. D''khara stood on his chair and began barking dwarvish curses at the machine, rising in intensity and volume. His color up, his mustache bristling, he furiously blasted the computer with blistering curses, faster and faster, working himself up to a froth.
"Is everything okay?" Oliver asked, poking his head in.
"It''s fine!" D''khara roared. "I''m just fixing this stupid machine!" He punctuated his words with blows of his fist on the desk, denting the wood surface.
"Anything I can help with?"
Heaving, D''khara turned his wrathful countenance toward Oliver, who really was only trying to help. With an effort, he forced himself to calm down, deliberately slowing his breathing.
"I''m sorry, don''t worry about it. I know you''ve got a lot to take care of."
"Oh, it''s no problem. I don''t mind." Oliver came in and started looking at the screen.
"Also I think I might need a new keyboard."
"Oh, these things are fairly durable. It will be fine once you put the keycaps back on." He squinted at the screen for a moment. "Hmm. This is a smaller screen than I''m used to."
Oliver read through the screen for a few minutes, then looked at the chit, and carefully punched in the information.
"Your payment information is incorrect," the computer said.
"Please enter your payment information," it said.
"See?" D''khara gestured triumphantly at the screen.
"Huh. Strange."
"I! Smell spicy tacos!" Roger said, popping up in the room.
"Not right now, Roger. We''re trying to fix the computer."
"But it is a rain. With sads! And myyyyy gluteus!"
Ignoring him, Oliver entered the data again.
"Your payment information is incorrect," the computer said.
"Please enter your payment information," it said.
"Oh! Oh! I can!"
They looked at Roger, standing there with his sad, sagging shirt, hopeless pants and his hopeful grin.
"It''s all right, Roger. We can manage this. I think the keyboard''s just smaller than I''m used to." So saying, Oliver carefully, deliberately, and with exquisite precision entered the data again.
"Your payment information is incorrect," the computer said.
"Please enter your payment information," it said.
"Me! Me! Mememe! I can make all the rainbowy-glowy happies!"
"Roger, I just-- you know what? Feel free to try. It will be easier to let you get this out of your system than to fight--"
"Thank you for your payment. Your cabin has been reserved." the computer burbled as Roger slapped gleefully at the keyboard.
"Ha ha! What amazing carbuncles!" Roger observed, and wandered off.
D''khara and Oliver stared at the green approval message.
"I am not okay with this," D''khara growled.
"I don''t think I am either," Oliver said. "Uh, anyway, if you need anything else, notify me; I''m happy to help." So saying, Oliver left the armory as well.
D''khara stared at the screen angrily for a minute before wiping it away. He still had to figure out some kind of tour guide, but he''d had all the frustration he could take for the moment. 30 - The Mission Begins
The Riotfish crew was packed into the Battle Wagon, along with enough artillery to start a minor war. Mrs. Meade was driving, and with Fleer taking the first shift as navigator, Oliver was forced to sit in the back.
While there was technically more room in the back than in the passenger seat, it was crammed full of the scuffed, worn, durable fiberglass equipment crates holding their ordnance. Crates had been fitted under the benches, and every available slot.
"Better to have it and not need it," Fleer had said, "than to need it and not have it."
"Okay yeah, thanks, Confucius," Little Timmy had said.
Oliver was twisted nearly sideways on one of the benches lining the sides of the Battle Wagon, crammed between a wall and a crate on one axis, and Little Timmy and the rear door on the other.
D''khara and Roger sat on the bench across the way. A row of crates stacked three high made it so that Roger could only barely see over the top to Oliver and Little Timmy, and D''khara could only see the top of Oliver''s head.
Roger bounced on the unpadded wooden bench in excitement.
"We''re going on a field trip!" he chirped. "So many wonderful blandishments! Hand cheeses! Extraordinary clam traps! All designed to breathe at me!"
D''khara gripped the edge of the bench with both hands. Objectively, he knew that Roger was energetic and excitable. He was not bouncing on the seat specifically to annoy D''khara. Bouncing and rattling D''khara''s skull with every impact. Bouncing with squeaking and making excited chirping noises and--
"Roger stop that!" he hissed.
"Okay!" Roger complied.
A salty voice floated over from the other side of the crates.
"Yeah, like you''ve got it bad. You don''t have a literal elephant laying on you. An elephant that smells like farts and old tires."
"That is a very hurtful thing to say," Oliver rejoined, "and also inaccurate."
Although Oliver hung precariously over Little Timmy, he strained as he tried not to actually lean on the excitable mercenary. Little Timmy was taking it with his usual grace and composure.
"Trade you," D''khara said.
"I have to pee again!" Roger said.
"You just went pee! Before we left!"
"Ha ha! But pee it is!"
"Trade you," D''khara called over to Little Timmy.
"Fine," Oliver said. "I''ll come over. I''d be happy to spend some time with Roger."
There was some shuffling and grunting as the Riotfish rearranged themselves, D''khara scuffling around one side of the crates, and Oliver carefully picking around the other, trying not to crush anybody.
After all the shuffling, Little Timmy lounged next to D''khara, his arms crossed.
"It''s better on this side. Now we can keep the weirdos on the other side."
D''khara grimaced. He didn''t necessarily agree with the sentiment, but he was happy to have some breathing space from the weirdos for a bit.
"How long is this trip?" D''khara asked.
"Literally a thousand miles," Little Timmy replied. "Like, actually literally a thousand miles."
"With Mrs. Meade driving the whole way." D''khara groaned.
"We could tell her that it''s time to go fast." Little Timmy grinned wickedly.
"Nope!" D''khara cut in. "We''re fine! I bet we''ve already come 100 miles. A tenth of the way there. Making progress."
Conversation floated over the crates from the other side.
"How do you do Roger?"
"My belly button smells weird," Roger replied.
"Oh?"
"It''s made of ham!"
"What is? Your belly button? Your belly button smells like ham?"
Roger cackled.
"No! Silly! Ham doesn''t smell!"
"Hmm. I disagree. Speaking of ham, did you know I once ate a whole pig raw?"
"Triangle sounds!"If you encounter this tale on Amazon, note that it''s taken without the author''s consent. Report it.
"Yes. It was supposed to be quite a treat. It wasn''t."
"Mothers give you treats."
"Very true. My mother was very kind. She kept me safe, in our clan. I was the smallest. Really, I shouldn''t have been allowed to live, but she protected me."
"Angery? With flies?"
"Well, yes. Father wasn''t involved with us. Not that he was a bad father, mind you, that''s just the orc way. My peers were uninterested in me, since I was too sickly to participate in most of their activities. Mother could have gotten in trouble, but I think she had me classified as some kind of house elf to skirt the law."
"Oliver? Oliver Oliver?"
"Yes Roger?"
"I have, to ride on the outside now."
"Um. Outside?"
"Of the van."
"Um. Perhaps you should ask Mr. Fleer."
"I''m going outside! With daisies on!" Roger yelled.
"Okay," Fleer called back, distractedly scrolling around the map. "Have fun."
"Does he realize we''re in a moving vehicle?" Oliver managed to say before Roger threw open the back doors and swung himself onto the roof of the Battle Wagon with a gymnast''s grace. Even though they were traveling well below the posted speed limit, the rush of wind drowned out Oliver''s voice.
"Knock when you''re ready to come back in!" he yelled at Roger before slamming the doors shut.
There was the clunking sound of Roger pacing around on the roof for a minute, then it settled down.
"Finally some quiet," Little Timmy said, breaking the silence.
There was a sound of a steady stream of liquid from the roof, as though a hose had been turned on it. Mrs. Meade had to turn on the windshield wipers. Oliver buried his face in his hands while Little Timmy cackled.
"How long is this trip?" D''khara asked.
Although it was not mathematically possible that the trip took an eternity, D''khara felt he could write a credible dissertation disputing that. Every joint and bone ached from the steady rattle of the Battle Wagon, and his temper was strained to fraying by Little Timmy and Oliver and Roger and Mr. Fleer and Mrs. Meade and the whole world and everybody in it and every thing.
Roger had been in and out of the van a dozen times throughout the trip, only a few of those when the Battle Wagon was actually stopped. Little Timmy had taken the opportunity of the long trip to start expounding some of his many conspiracy theories. Oliver had taken a brief nap during which he snored so violently that Mrs. Meade kept shifting to make sure the CV shaft hadn''t broken and shredded the transmission. Mrs. Meade, of course, drove with painful slowness, which gave the Riotfish the opportunity to be exposed to the rich variety of horns from many, many, many other drivers on the road.
As they were nearing the end of their mathematically questionable journey, Fleer twisted around in his seat.
"So, D''khara, we''re getting close to the cabin. Is the caretaker or guide or whatever going to meet us there?"
The bottom dropped out of D''khara''s stomach. In the rush to get everything ready for the trip, he''d completely forgotten to book someone to take care of Mrs. Meade.
"Yep," D''khara squeaked.
"Excellent! We''ll be there in about fifteen minutes. We''ll be able to walk around and stretch our legs."
"Yep! Ha ha! Good times! I will go in and take care of everything! Don''t you worry!"
"Ah, you''ve got someone on site already. Makes sense. Thank you for taking care of that, by the way."
He could actually feel the percent chance of passing his 90-day evaluation drop into the single digits.
D''khara sat and tried, by force of will, to stretch the remainder of the trip into an equally mathematically impossible eternity while he frantically tried to figure out what to do.
The clerk leaned back in surprise as a broad nose popped over the counter, followed by two beady eyes and a huge nimbus of bushy mustache.
"I have a cabin booked," said the face.
Clarence the desk clerk had never seen a dwarf before.
"Um, a cabin?"
"Yeah," said the dwarf. "You do that here, don''t you?"
"Oh yes, sir," Clarence replied, anxious to start into his spiel. "Welcome to Wildglen Cabins, where We have comfortable accommodations overlooking--"
"Don''t care. Can you take care of someone for us?"
"Um. Take care of?"
The dwarf jerked a thumb over his shoulder, pointing at a little old lady who was wandering around the lobby looking slightly concussed.
"Her. Make sure she''s taken care of. Entertained. Manicures. Whatever."
"Oh, sir, I don''t know if we can really--" he was cut off as the dwarf slapped a credit chit up onto the counter.
"For you personally," said the dwarf, pointing at Clarence.
The deep purple credit chit changed the clerk''s demeanor drastically.
"Absolutely, sir, we would be thrilled to make sure that her stay is the most memorable of her life! We have local tours, spas, historic sites of interest, fine restaurants, theaters..."
"Whatever. There''s another one of those for you if she''s happy when we get back."
"Yes, sir! Splendid, sir! We will take the utmost care of your, um...?"
"Think of her as grandma to a bunch of terminally rowdy grandkids. We will be very unhappy if she''s unhappy."
"Yes, naturally," Clarence said, his gaze wandering to the door of the lobby. Outside squatted a van that looked as though it had been on the receiving end of a direct missile strike. Standing next to it was a man in a suit arguing with... was that an orc!? "We will... utmost care... yes, sir." He fumbled a key out of the rack behind the counter. "Here is the key to her cabin."
The eyes glared at him for a moment.
"I''ll, uh, just show her to her cabin, how about, and make sure she''s all settled in."
"Good thinking," the eyes replied. They stared at him for another long, hard moment, then thankfully turned away.
"Mrs. Meade? We got you a place to stay. Like we said we would? This man is going to show you the way."
"Oh, you boys will be careful, won''t you? I''ll worry about you all ever so much."
"We''ll be just fine! We want to make sure you''re taken care of. Mr. Fleer said to call him if you need anything. He won''t be able to answer right away, so you can just leave a message."
"Oh, I''m sure it will be fine, dear. Thank you so much."
"Thank you, Mrs. Meade. You take care."
She tottered in close and D''khara steeled himself. Mrs. Meade enfolded him in one of her generous hugs as he stood, ramrod-straight and immensely uncomfortable.
Dwarves are not, by nature, huggy people.
After inflicting her affection on him, she waved goodbye to the Riotfish as D''khara stumped out of the lobby and swung into the van.
"Got her squared away?" Fleer asked.
"Yep. Made sure she''ll be well taken care of," D''khara replied, firing another grim look at the clerk inside, who smiled a sickly grin and waved back. Clarence the desk clerk was now in possession of nearly half the money D''khara had earned as a Riotfish so far. "She should have fun."
"Excellent! We''ll leave the Battle Wagon here for the duration of the op. It won''t be any use in the swamp. I''ve contacted a local to take us the rest of the way to Daugereaux. He should be here shortly."
"All right," D''khara replied, handing equipment and weapons down to Oliver. "We''ll try to have this stuff ready by then." 31 - Into The Swamp
It was perhaps two hours later. The Riotfish were a study in impatience, standing outside the cabins, watching over their equipment in the relentless heat.
"Are you sure you told him the right place?" Oliver asked.
"For the fifth time, yes. There''s only one place like this in town. I don''t think he would have trouble finding it regardless. I wonder if something happened."
"Something''s going to happen to him, being this late," D''khara muttered darkly.
Oliver was leaning against a stack of ammo crates, reading something on his datapad, and Little Timmy was off in the grass, pulling blades up one by one, but with a fury and intensity that would have the lawn bare by nightfall.
It was another fifteen minutes before a huge, shiny red pickup truck rolled into the parking lot. The window rolled down, emitting a frosty blast of air conditioning as a lean, scruffy man in a wifebeater leaned out.
"Y''all them Riotfish what called?"
"Yes," Fleer said icily. "Two and a half hours ago."
"I''m Robby," he said cheerfully, ignoring the chill. "Hooo dog, you boys are a crew," he said, smiling a monotoothed grin. "Y''all after some deer?"
"Something like that," Fleer said shortly.
"Well get on it, brother! Load up and let''s go!"
The Riotfish transferred their equipment into the bed of the truck.
"David, where should we sit?" Oliver asked. The cab of the truck was clearly not going to accommodate Oliver''s frame.
"Y''all just jump on in the back there," their driver said. "It''s got a nice cool breeze, and we''ll be there before you''re ready to hop out! I got a cooler with some beer back there if you want."
"Oh, um. Thank you, I suppose." Oliver replied, climbing gingerly into the bed of the truck. The vehicle settled noticeably as he mounted. D''khara, Roger, and Little Timmy tucked themselves in between Oliver and the equipment as best they could.
"You can ride up front with me, Mr. Suit. We''ll get you there lickety-split." Their scruffy host leaned forward confidentially. "I keep the good beer up front."
They started their journey rollicking merrily along the interstate, weaving more than Fleer was comfortable with, especially with three unsecured people in the back. Robby was clearly ready to have a great time driving them into the swamp.
"Whereabouts in the swamp are you boys headed?" he asked.
Fleer pulled up the coordinates on his datapad and showed the map to their driver.
Robby''s face drooped, and the truck slowed somewhat.
"Out there? That''s old man Daugereaux''s land."
"Yes," confirmed Fleer. "That''s where we''re headed."
The truck slowed a little more.
"Only, old man Daugereaux don''t let nobody hunt on his land."
"Well, he''s expecting us," Fleer assured him.
"He don''t much like visitors, neither," their driver said.
"Look, he''s asked us out there. Surely he has visitors?"
"You ain''t kin of him. And you ain''t friends." The truck slowed further. People began passing them.
"We''re contractors. We were asked to come out! He has people come out, right? To fix the plumbing and such?"
The driver gave Fleer a side-eye.
"You ain''t been out there, have you? Old man Daugereaux don''t have plumbing."
"Doesn''t have-- look, I personally guarantee that he is expecting all of us and all of our equipment there. Today."
Robby fell to muttering to himself as the truck slowed further. The people passing them began to honk.
"Didn''t tell me nothin'' about goin'' to old man Daugereaux''s place. Doggone out-of-towners, drinkin'' my beer and gettin'' me in trouble. Gonna get my truck shot up again, and it ain''t even paid for yet."
The driver stared balefully at Fleer.
"Any damage to my truck, and I''m charging it to you," he said.
"Yes! Fine! Can we just get there please?"
"Doggone wife''s gonna be mad at me again, Daugereaux is gonna be mad, and them boys are gonna laugh."
They trundled down the interstate, ignoring the honking and rude gestures of those who passed. It took perhaps an hour before he turned off the interstate onto a seedy, weedy little road that had more hotpatch than asphalt. The crew bounced and jounced in the back trying to hold onto their equipment as the uneven road surface overcame the shocks on the truck. Robby continued to shoot accusatory glances at Fleer from time to time.
They turned off again onto something that could be called a road only by the most generous of souls. The vehicle rocked back and forth alarmingly, and everyone in the back had to hold on to both their equipment and the truck. After 15 interminable minutes of this, they turned off again.
"Are you sure this is the right way?" Fleer asked, rattling around in his seat. "I don''t think this is made for vehicles."
They were driving along two dirt ruts leading into the woods. Tall grass grew thickly between the ruts, and tree branches hung in close, screeching along the truck and slapping the passengers in the back as they bounced along.
Robby gave Fleer a flat, nasty look, and turned back to his driving, muttering to himself some more.
"Like I don''t know how to get to Daugereaux''s. Everybody knows how to get to Daugereaux''s, just don''t nobody oughta go. Doggone out-of-towners. Don''t even know a tractor trail when they see it."Unauthorized duplication: this narrative has been taken without consent. Report sightings.
They rattled on down some more, until the trail widened some, the tree branches backed off, and the ground softened beneath the tires. A vague odor permeated the cab of the truck, a little astringent, a little sewery, and definitely very natural.
The tractor trail petered out a quarter-mile further on, dead-ending into an open area that somebody probably considered a yard. Whereas the grass grew thickly in most places, here it had been pounded to oblivion by truck tires. At some point in the distant past a half-hearted effort had been made to class the place up by pouring gravel for a driveway, but most of the gravel had since sunk into the mud. Many ruts and tire marks covered the soft ground. The air was thick, hot and still, dripping with humidity. The area was quiet, punctuated only by the occasional strident, penetrating call of cicadas looking for a mate.
Robby hunched down behind the steering wheel while Fleer disembarked.
Fleer walked up to the cabin planted on the edge of the water. It was standing on stilts to keep it clear of the swamp. Steep-roofed and dismal, it clearly needed years more maintenance than it had ever gotten. Grim, dirty windows stared at Fleer as he mounted the steps to the broad porch that dominated the front of the house.
A tiny, shriveled old man sat in a rocking chair snoozing quietly in the afternoon heat. He looked a bit like Daugereaux, but if that''s who it was, then instead of the camera adding fifty pounds, it had added six inches of height and removed fifty years. The manikin here looked nearly mummified. He was wearing bib overalls with no shirt, and old white rubber boots.
Unsure how to proceed, Fleer clumped heavily up the stairs, making hollow booming footsteps that reverberated in the empty space under the porch, hoping to wake his contact.
The little man slept on.
He clomped across the porch, making more noise, but the raisin in the rocker didn''t budge.
Gently, he leaned over Daugereaux.
"Mr. Daugereaux?" he said loudly.
Nothing.
Oh, I hope he''s not dead, thought Fleer, gingerly reaching out to shake him.
The old man exploded forward with a squeal and a holler. Fleer screamed a little himself, and fell over. The Riotfish in the truck were immediately on their feet, guns trained in every direction. Robby was nearly on the floor of his cab.
It took several seconds lying on the porch for Fleer''s heart rate to lower back to a healthy speed.
"Oh, chief, you done scared me, waking me all up over a sudden like dat." The wizened old man stepped into Fleer''s view. "But I think I done ''bout scared de faces offa you, too. Isaiah Daugereaux. You pronounce dat ''DOH-zhuh-row''," he reminded Fleer. "Pleasetomeetyou." He held out his hand to the recumbent mercenary.
Fleer gingerly shook his hand while lying on the porch.
"David Fleer," he said weakly, "an honor to meet you."
Fleer stood shakily to his feet and took a moment to compose himself.
"Welp, you boys come on in. We will get you somethin'' to eat, den I can show you on around de place."
"Yes," Fleer replied, smiling faintly. "Um, where can my men unload our equipment?"
"You jus'' drop all dat in de yard, and all y''all come on in. Ma Daugereaux gonna feed y''all first." He squinted at the truck. "Is dat Robby?" he yelled, putting the emphasis on the last syllable of the name. "Rah-BEE!" he yelled. "Come on in and get you somethin'' to eat! Momma been cookin'', yeah!"
Robby rolled down the window and peeked out timidly.
"You ain''t mad at these fellers?" he asked.
"May nawn," replied Daugereaux. "I hired dese boys for a work. Besides, you know I cain''t shoot dem trespassers no more. De cemetery down back is already full."
Robby gave a sickly smile. Daugereaux leaned up to Fleer and muttered, "I''m making him a joke, me. We ain''t got a cemetery here."
Fleer nodded, slightly relieved.
"Got to have a priest bless it before you can call it a cemetery." He gestured at the rest of the Riotfish, who were unloading the truck and yelled to them. "You boys can put all dat jus'' right dere! Robby, you gon'' come eat?"
Robby shook his head.
"Wife''s expecting me back before dark, I''m gonna get in a pile of trouble if I''m late again."
"Well, go on then. Tell your mama I said hi!"
"Will do!" Robby hollered back. The Riotfish finished unloading, and Robby and his bright red truck rumbled off back down the tractor trail.
The Riotfish made a tidy pile of their equipment and then trooped into the cabin behind Fleer and Daugereaux.
The inside of the cabin was plain and surprisingly cheerful. Tall windows allowed the strong sunlight to illuminate the main room. The air inside was humid and still despite the front door being left open, and felt at least ten degrees hotter than outside. The interior did little to soften the penetrating song of the cicadas. A creaking screen door clapped shut behind them, pulled to by a long, rusty spring. The floor was plain wood, and smelled strongly of pine cleaner that had been over-applied. The old floor had been mopped so long and so hard that the softer parts of the wood had been worn away and the grain stood out in stark lines.
"Fellas, welcome to my home. Dat cute thing over by de stove is my adorin'' wife, Ma Daugereaux."
Ma Daugereaux was a tall, rawboned woman that topped her husband by nearly two heads. She was lean and weathered, flapping around the kitchen in house slippers, a muumuu, and a grim face that could have found a home in American Gothic. For all that, her voice was surprisingly gentle. She was already busily pouring out cups of coffee and arranging a tray of snacks.
"Red beans''ll be a couple hours yet," she said, bustling around. "You all have some coffee in the meantime. Y''all want anything for your coffee?"
"Sugar, please," Fleer said.
Oliver sat cross-legged on the floor, since no chair would hold him, and gazed at the coffee cup, made tiny in his massive hands. The fluid was thick and oily and impenetrably black.
"Um, sugar for me too, please," he said. Oliver had never gotten the taste for coffee, but he felt certain that enough sugar would make it palatable. Ma Daugereaux brought around another tray, and Oliver doctored his cup with a generous stream of sugar. He stirred it for a moment and took a sip.
The sugar had done little to mitigate the harsh, dark flavor of the coffee. The bitterness was like dragging a rusty sawblade across his tongue. After suppressing a gasp, he wondered if it would be rude to ask for more sugar.
"Well let me introduce myself and my men," Fleer said, standing. "I am David Fleer, owner of Riotfish Inc., and the leader of our happy little crew. Over here is Oliver Gutshell, our lead strategist and heavy weapons specialist. He''s as strong as he looks, and as smart as Einstein!" Oliver gave a little wave, holding in tears after having hazarded a second sip of coffee.
"Next to Oliver is Roger, our close support specialist and grenadier. He is a terror on the battlefield, and is ferocious with a blade."
"Carrots die! In. The fridge," Roger noted.
Little Timmy was leaning back in his chair against the wall, the two legs of the ancient chair finding an insecure purchase on the old wooden floor. He grinned uncertainly at the coffee, then slammed it back in one mighty chug. In deference to the social setting, he refrained from screaming, but his eyes bulged, and a sound like an over-pressurized steam boiler escaped from him.
Fleer turned to him next.
"Over here is ''Little'' Timmy Navarre, another of our riflemen. He''s also our demolitions expert, and a force to be reckoned with. He''s mastered dual-wielding his submachine guns, and easily puts out the highest volume of firepower of any of the Riotfish. In his spare time, he experiments with new explosive compounds."
"Yeah hi whatever the coffee is amazing thanks" Little Timmy said. His eyes were jittering, and his face twitched in various places.
"And in the corner is D''khara Arilburr, our armorer and shotgunner. He packs a mean punch and can clear a room faster than you can blink."
"Especially after Mexican food," D''khara muttered. A couple uncomfortable coughs and glances circled the room as the joke fell flat on the floor and died quietly. D''khara went back to staring disapprovingly at his coffee. He took a sip, and his eyebrows rose in surprise. He took another sip, and some of the disapproval melted from his face.
Old Man Daugereaux stood up.
"Well, I am Isaiah Daugereaux, and I have lived here on dis land my whole life. I done my duty in de Second Corp''rate War, and raised two chirren, who have grown and gone. I got me a problem wit dese awlmen on my land, and I did not spend seventy-five years here just to have dese young chevalier come in and take over. I aim to take my land back from dem, and dat is why I have axed for you all''s help."
"Oh, interesting, you were in the Second Corporate War? Who were you with?" Fleer asked.
"We don'' talk about dat," Daugereaux said shortly, without even looking at Fleer.
"Ah. Yes, sorry."
"Now here in a bit, when we all done snackin'' up some food, I will show y''all around de land. In de meantime, less enjoy dis quiet little moment before de stormclouds roll in." 32 - Getting to Know the Daugereauxs
After a leisurely time with the coffee, Daugereaux slapped his legs and stood up.
"I got to give you de nickel tour of my place," Daugereaux said expansively. "You got to know what y''all defending."
Fleer nodded, and the Riotfish followed Daugereaux out the door.
The cabin itself was quick enough to show, just an open room that constituted the kitchen/dining room/living room, and a couple small rooms tacked onto the back for a bedroom and storage. Daugereaux took them outside and rambled around the yard. Every feature of the land had a story behind it, and Daugereaux was only too happy to tell each and every one.
"Now dis dock here I rebuilt about thirty years ago, to replace de one dat mon pere built here when I was growin'' up."
The Riotfish dutifully admired the dock that was next to the house, the gutted propane tank in the yard, the gravel driveway, and the mountainous pile of scrap metal Daugereaux had been collecting. "I got to take dat in one of dese days," he said of the scrap.
"Dis house is on de southeast side of my proppity," he said, rambling through the knee-high grasses and weeds that surrounded his home. "The proppity is long, running nort''-sout''. De highway is off to de west some, wit'' some of my land on past it. De Tiamagua Basin runs all up along de east side, so you cain''t go dat way except by boat."
"And up north is where the Cryocorp facility is," Fleer filled in.
"Like you say," Daugereaux continued. "I don''t go up dat way much, de huntin'' ain''t worthwhile up dere and it''s all sticker bushes and weeds."
"Maybe we can do some scouting out there tomorrow," Fleer suggested, looking at the beginnings of dusk.
"Dat sounds about right. Now de house up dere," he gestured toward the Acadian cabin, "was built by my parrain back in eighty-five. We used to had us a cabin fu''ther up de bayou, but de flood dat year came up high enough to float de house right off de blocks, and washed it on out to de Miss''ippi river. Dis over here," he gestured to a building lower and larger than the house, partially hidden by the tall grass, "is my workshop, where I tinker wit'' things. I can show y''all some of dat, hol'' on."
Daugereaux pulled a giant ring of keys out of the pocket of his bib overalls. He fumbled interminably with the shifting, multi-limbed monstrosity of old brass, bent rings, and shredded plastic key fobs advertising local businesses. Finally finding the right key, Daugereaux used it to click open a padlock. He slid a long rusty chain out of the door handles, and cast open the wide doors.
The interior was dim, with bare wooden walls and a dirt floor. Daugereaux opened a few wooden shutters, which didn''t really brighten the place much, but at least gave the dimness some texture. Worn wooden workbenches hugged each wall, and they were covered with a variety of stuff. Metalworking, woodworking, various bits of disassembled machinery, over here some sickly plants growing, over there some old farm equipment, hand tools of all kinds lay scattered around various projects without apparent rhyme or reason.
The Riotfish moved in slowly, taking in the overwhelming sight of oilcans and drums of gasoline, mysterious putties and compounds, a random pile of firewood, and enough scrap lumber to build a medium-sized house. They separated and began examining various projects.
Daugereaux seemed well pleased.
They wandered quietly around the shed. D''khara found an arc welder made from what looked like an old marine battery, a microwave transformer, and a jumper cable. Little Timmy found a chest freezer that clearly hadn''t been plugged in since shortly after the invention of electricity. With a horrified fascination, he tried pulling the lid open, but it remained firmly stuck shut. Thinking better of his curiosity, he moved on. Fleer looked shrewdly at a couple of long, narrow swords that were plated with rust. Roger simply darted from place to place with delight, reveling in the heaps of aged projects, here caressing a moldy can of gunpowder, there gently licking an old pile of weeds.
"What''s this, Mr. Daugereaux?" Oliver asked.
"Oh, don''t touch dat, shah," Daugereaux said, walking over. "Dat''s my fam''ly''s punt gun."
"A what now?"
Daugereaux laid a proud hand on the long tube. It looked like a gun, mostly, except it was enormous. It was nearly ten feet long, and the barrel bore was at least two inches across. The stock was cypress, and ran most of the length of the gun, with thick iron straps holding the ridiculous barrel snugly against the wood.
"Dis here is a punt gun. It came down through Ma Daugereaux''s side of de fam''ly. It is basically a great big ol'' shotgun. It takes dese shells here," he said, pointing at brass shells the size of a man''s fist.
"How would you even fire something like that?" D''khara asked. "You can''t possibly hold it up."
"Oh, you don''t hold it, shah. Dey used to use dese for huntin'' ducks. Mount dat in a little boat or pirogue, and you get all behin'' one end. You row your pirogue around to point at de ducks floatin'' on de water, and den BLAM!" he yelled, making everybody start. "You shoot de whole flock at once."
"That''s amazing," Fleer said. "I''ve never heard of such a thing."
"Yep," Daugereaux said, caressing the barrel. "You could wipe out a whole flock in a single shot. Dey ain''t made dese in a coon''s age. Dey''s all illegal now."
"Then why do those shells look ready to fire?" Little Timmy asked.
"Now why you got to axe me a dumb question like dat? If you gon'' restore a old piece, you got to do it all de way. Dis is not for huntin'' dem ducks, just... collectin''."Stolen from its original source, this story is not meant to be on Amazon; report any sightings.
From outside came two short blips of a car horn.
"Oh, y''all got to excuse me, it sounds like I got some comp''ny." Shooing the reluctant Riotfish out, Daugereaux slithered the chain back through the door handles and locked up before rambling back toward the house.
"Oh! Coon boy!" he hollered, waving at a long, silver sedan parked in the gravel driveway. "May I ain''t seed you in forever! Ma''s in de house makin'' red beans, go on and get you some!"
"That''s a Roucey Duchess," Fleer muttered, marveling at the sleek silver vehicle. Somehow it had managed to navigate the road to Daugereaux'' house without a single scratch. "Now what''s a high-end gravroller like that doing way out here?"
The doors of the car opened, spilling out four massive men. They were heavily muscled, with thick lips and flowing curly hair and were dressed in suits that suited them poorly, bulging and distorting the expensive fabric in all the wrong places. Moving with surprising coordination, like four fingers of a single hand, they converged on the rear door of the Duchess as a round little man stepped out.
"Hey Coon Boy!" Daugereaux called, hustling up to the car. "You been diggin'' through any trash cans lately?" Daugereaux called, hooting laughter. The round little man laughed, joining Daugereaux.
Daugereaux, my old friend," he said with a hint of an Italian accent, wrapping the little Cajun in a giant hug. "I was in the area and thought I''d stop by. It''s been too long."
"True dat. Howsyamommenem?"
It took Fleer a moment to parse out that "How''s your mom and them?" had been smashed into a single, horrible word.
"Oh, momma''s good, she''s good. Her condition flared up last year, but the doctor says she can''t take any more medicine."
"Oh now ain''t dat a shame. Dese doggone doctors, dey''ll kill you dead if you don''t watch it."
"True, true," commiserated the little Italian.
"Well let''s not stand around bangin'' our gums where de mosquitoes gon'' eat us up. Let''s get in, I bet Ma''s got dem beans jus'' about ready."
Oliver sat on the floor. Everyone else was seated at some kind of table-- Ma Daugereaux had brought out a card table and folding metal chairs to accommodate everyone else, but she simply didn''t have anything that would hold Oliver. She was visibly upset over the oversight, regardless of how much Oliver assured her he was used to sitting on the floor. After a while she had to give up trying to find a solution and started serving the meal.
Oliver carefully watched her prepare each serving. First, a glutinous lump of rice was smacked down onto the plate, then a generous layer of sludge was spooned over it, steaming and silty, with sausages and what looked like the reclaimed souls of beans poking out of it. She handed the plates around.
Oliver held the plate gingerly in his giant hand, with a fork delicately held in the other. He gently sniffed the concoction on the plate, and clamped his lips together in shock.
"Don''t be rude, Oliver, just eat it," Fleer hissed.
The little Italian and his four bodyguards started eating with hearty enthusiasm. They were halfway through clearing their plates before Ma Daugereaux was finished handing out thick slabs of cornbread.
Perhaps it tastes better than it smells, Oliver thought, raising the fork to his lips. It might be like those pungent cheeses that smell bad but taste OH NO IT''S AWFUL AND I CAN''T SPIT THIS OUT HERE.
Tears streaming, he gathered together all his willpower and tried to force down the tiny bite of food.
"Look at me, de bad host," Daugereaux said. "I ain''t introduce nobody. Fellas, dis here is Matthias Russo, he is from up nort'' on de eas'' coast, but I don''t hold dat against him." They both chuckled. "We done us some bidness a few years back. Coon Boy, dese here is de Riotfish. Dey is rowdy fellas who is helpin'' me wit'' some troubles here on de proppity."
"That''s good," Russo said. "You know, we worry about you and Ma Daugereaux out here with nobody to help."
"Oh, psh. We''s fine. We got folks comin'' by all de time, and T-Jean brings us groceries and supplies mos'' reg''lar."
"Well, I''m glad to see you getting some help. With no family out here--"
"Well, dat ain''t important. You boys got enough to eat over dere? Ma, you wanna get dem some more to drink?"
Russo nodded and put his attention back on his food.
Fleer tried not to stare at him. He''d done some subtle digging in the conversation, to no avail. Clearly the man had some influence. But how did he ever come to know someone like Daugereaux? Russo was a genteel corporate type, and the old man looked like he''d never been out of the swamp.
Then again, looks could be deceiving.
Fleer would have given two teeth to know Russo''s background, but it was Not Done to whip out one''s datapad and start investigating the other guests over dinner. Anyway, he''d surreptitiously tried to find a connection earlier, with no luck. Daugereaux must have had some kind of hardline connection run out here to connect to the holonet.
It took a few minutes, but the conversation slowly warmed again. They all chatted amiably as they ate, with the Riotfishers talking shop with Russo''s bodyguards, Daugereaux talking with Fleer and Russo, and around it all, Ma Daugereaux wove through, keeping everybody''s plates and glasses full.
Eating slowly stopped as people filled up, but the conversation rattled on for another hour or so. Despite having spent most of the meal shuffling food around instead of eating it, Oliver''s plate was suspiciously clean. The window next to him had been left open to let air flow through, which was a fortunate coincidence.
Russo stood. "I hate to say it," he said, "but me and my boys need to put in some more time on the road tonight. Fleer, it was good to meet you and your men. Daugereaux, Ma, it''s been wonderful seeing you again."
"You too, shah. You got to come back by more often," Daugereaux said, hugging the little man again.
The long silver car slid away down the wooded road in the darkening twilight, and the strong, steady thrum of its gravwells faded.
"Well, it''s all a little late for you boys to be setting up tents and all in de dark. You all can sack out on de floor here, or make whatever kind of arrangements you got."
"It would be very kind of you to let us sleep here. We have some bedding in our equipment we can use."
"Alright. Ma''s got some blankets put up if y''all want somethin'' to keep off de cold."
Staring at each other, the Riotfish considered the rivulets of sweat running down and pooling in every crevice and undergarment. Even in the evening dark, the heat was stifling and the humidity gave the very air an oppressive weight.
"That would be great, thanks so much!" Fleer chirped, a thin sheen of sweat covering his face. "We would all be very appreciative."
Daugereaux bustled off to help his wife with the blankets. Oliver, ever the one to have to start uncomfortable conversations, cleared his throat.
"David, far be it from me to question your methods, but do we really need blankets? It''s fairly warm in here already."
Fleer smiled.
"This is not logistics, this is marketing. Never pass up the opportunity to let a client do you a favor. We''re not sure why, but letting someone do you a favor helps them like you more. It smoothes the relationship. It''s called the ''Ben Franklin Effect.''"
"Aha. So what do we do with the blankets, then?"
At that moment a tall pile of blankets wearing Daugereaux'' legs wobbled into the room.
"I got dese to get y''all started," it said. "Ma''s coming wit de rest." And the plethora of blankets was dumped on the floor.
"Wee little cobwebs, tucked up for bed!" Roger said.
Fleer looked aghast at the mountain of bedding.
"Well. At least we''ll keep the frostbite off," D''khara said. 33 - Establishing Home Base
Ma Daugereaux was up preparing coffee and breakfast before any of the Riotfish woke, so they were gently brought to consciousness by the homey rattle of kitchenware and crockery.
D''khara blearily opened his eyes. The temperature hadn''t dropped much overnight. He''d managed to avoid putting any of the blankets on top of himself by building a kind of dam with them around his body. The heat had been relentless. He was more accustomed to the cool dampness of the mine, or the dry coolness of the Riotfish HQ. This angry, sticky air was a new phenomenon to him. He felt as though he''d not really been able to fall fully asleep all night.
He sat up, trying to blink some clarity into his eyes. His hair poked out every which way. The right side of his mustache was folded up, and the left side looked as though it had exploded. The smell of coffee drew him upright, only barely conscious, but fully on board with the idea of caffeine consumption. He stumbled over to the table and took a seat. Ma Daugereaux already had a cup poured as he sat down and set it in front of him.
"Y''all want some biscuits and gravy?" she asked.
"Oh, yes ma''am," D''khara replied.
She smiled.
"Just ''Ma'' is fine. I''ll set you up."
A minute later, she slid a huge plate in front of him, covered with dense, steaming homemade biscuits and thick, spicy sausage gravy.
He barely managed a "thank you" out before he started wolfing down the food. Ma Daugereaux watched him for a moment, smiling quietly.
Fleer slid in next to D''khara, looking more put-together than D''khara, if not any better rested. Dark bags pulled at his eyes.
"Good morning, Mrs. Daugereaux. Did you have a pleasant evening?"
"Oh, I did all right. How about yourself?"
"I, uh, slept quite well, thank you."
She put a plate in front of Fleer.
The rest of the Riotfish trickled in, their brief chatting extinguished by the presence of food. Everybody ate with gusto except for Oliver, who took two small polite bites and smiled uncomfortably while the rest of them ate.
After breakfast, the Riotfish began scouting Daugereaux'' land in earnest.
"This looks like a decent spot for us to set up base camp," Fleer said, casting about the clearing they''d been looking at. "What do you think, Oliver?
Oliver smiled awkwardly with his lips pressed together. He theatrically furrowed his brow and turned, pretending to consider the area. He gulped while nodding, surreptitiously crumpling the wrapper of a protein ration in his massive fist.
"Defensible, with water on two sides," he said, "with heavy cover everywhere else. Not much in the way of topological advantage, but I imagine everything around here is pretty flat. I''d say it''s as good as we''re likely to find."
"You sure y''all don'' want to set up closer to de house? We don''t mind feedin'' y''all," Daugereaux said, wandering back up.
"I appreciate the offer, Mr. Daugereaux, but we''ll want some distance between us. Just in case we''re attacked, we don''t want them getting too close to you and your wife. We can post a guard for you two just in case, and we''ll be close enough to reach you quickly, if something goes wrong."
Daugereaux nodded appreciatively.If you find this story on Amazon, be aware that it has been stolen. Please report the infringement.
"Well dat makes good sense," he said slowly, as the Riotfish began setting up camp. "But don''t you worry none about guardin'' us. Me and Ma can take care of ourselfs fine. You just worry about dem awlmen. And you let us know if dere''s anything we can help wit''."
Fleer nodded.
"We''ve been having a lot of trouble getting a connection out here," Fleer said. "It would be helpful if we could splice into your network connection. I know it''s a long way back to the cabin, but communication and research could be important."
Daugereaux scratched his head.
"I s''pose dat would be awright," he said. "I don'' know much about dem holonet, though."
"No worries," Fleer said. "We''ve got a spool of cable and a box of repeaters. I''m sure Oliver can run that out for us."
Oliver smiled awkwardly, with his lips pressed together, and nodded.
"Now, Mr. Daugereaux, after some investigation, I believe Oliver''s initial assessment was correct. These men on your land are not here for you or your oil rights, they''re planning a heist from a nearby facility, and using your land as a staging ground. We''d like to do some scouting to verify the enemy locations and numbers. While we can''t directly face off against such a large force, we can employ some guerrilla tactics to hamper their operation, perhaps enough to convince them to move their operation elsewhere."
"Mr. Fleer, I respec'' dat you got to make de decisions for you and your men, but I don''t want dem couyons to move dey operation. I want dem to be sorry dey ever thought to do it on my land in de first place."
Fleer nodded, trying not to smile.
"Understood. I had Oliver prepare a contingency plan just in case you felt that way. First, we''ll need to get our eyes out, then we can develop some tactics to soften them up some."
"Oh I got a start on dat, me. I already started messing wit'' dey catches."
"How so?"
"Stealin'' dey guns, or bendin'' de barrels, pulling out de firin'' pins, givin'' ''em a quick dunk in de swamp. Dat kind of thing. I got a list of de catches I found so far and where dey at."
"That''s a great start, and will save us a lot of time. We can definitely limit them that way. Problem is, if they''re well-funded, they''ll just ship in replacements."
D''khara was unrolling the massive tent that would house the Riotfish for the duration of the operation, but perked up as the conversation drifted to firearms.
"Can I make a suggestion?" he said. Fleer nodded for him to continue. "Don''t make the sabotage so obvious. What if we just tweaked their guns a little? Put the sights out of true so their aim will be off, clip the springs in their mags so they jam, little things that won''t stand out, so they don''t bring in replacements. That way we can make them a lot less effective without them realizing."
"Now dis, I like de way dis young fella thinks," said Daugereaux. "Dat sounds like a plan to me."
"Agreed," said Fleer. "D''khara, you and Roger work with Daugereaux to get a list of these caches, and put together a route to go around to as many of them as you can. Oliver, once we''re done setting up camp, take Little Timmy and scout everything between here and the Cryocorp land. We need to know where these guys are, how many there are, and how they''re moving around."
"Whizzle me a new Bacon!" Roger replied.
"Dat boy''s goin'' to blend right in wit'' de gators," Daugereaux observed.
"Oliver, let''s go over our contingency plans with Mr. Daugereaux, shall we? Do you have your datapad handy?"
Oliver set down the spool of cable he''d been carrying.
"Certainly." He pulled out his datapad and walked over, pulling up maps, elevations, and statistics. "As we''ve discovered, the operation here is to burgle a large quantity of gold from the Cryocorp facility on the northern border of your land, and then escape through the path they''ve been clearing. Our idea is to allow these soldiers to carry out their scheme without interference beforehand-- it''s unlikely we''d be able to stop them in any case. The plan is to ambush them once they''ve gotten the gold and are making their way out. They''ll be lulled by their success, possibly weakened by a confrontation with Cryocorp forces, and in no wise will they be expecting an attack. The woods should provide sufficient cover for this part of the operation."
"The particulars will depend on what we find after some scouting. Provisionally, we''ll mine the escape route, and perform a surprise attack from the rear. The shock of the attack and the disabling of their vehicles will hopefully start a rout. If not, we''ll fall back and use guerrilla tactics to break them up. With any luck we can prevent an extended fight. In any case, they won''t be able to get their vehicles out."
Daugereaux looked shrewdly at Fleer.
"So now I am suppose to axe what is goin'' to happen to dat gold. But I think I can make a pretty good guess."
Fleer broke in.
"It would be yours, of course," Fleer said. "Minus a small fee. But you have to admit, it would make them sorry they used your land for their plan."
"Dat is a truth," Daugereaux said. "Well den, I think dat is a fine plan."
Fleer couldn''t keep the grin off his face.
"Excellent. Let''s get cracking." 34 - Recon The Swamp
D''khara blundered through the underbrush, yanking at the thorns that snagged his shirtsleeve and stomping the brush flat.
"Wow," Roger said with genuine awe. "You are loud."
"You''re loud," D''khara growled. It was a bald-faced lie; Roger slipped smoothly from cover to cover while barely disturbing a single leaf or blade of grass. The woods seemed to avoid him. D''khara, on the other hand, was no friend of the forest. Branches and thorns and leaves with velcro surfaces reached out to grab him as he passed.
He blasted through another clump of foliage, cursing and trailing vegetation. The mosquitoes, unfazed by his swearing, supped freely from his exposed flesh. He swatted ineffectually at them. Roger, of course, was unaffected by the insects. Whether through affinity or disinterest, the mosquitoes left him alone.
"Are we close to the first cache, at least?" D''khara groused.
Roger gazed at the map on his datapad, thought about it for a moment, then turned the datapad upside down. With a birdlike tilt to his head, he studied the map some more.
"There," he hissed, pointing one finger-claw at a small hump of land in the middle of an endless, stagnant body of water.
"On that island? Why would they put a weapons cache on an island? And how are we supposed to get out there?" But Roger was already splashing into the water.
D''khara grimaced. He stepped experimentally into the muddy water. His boots vanished as soon as they sank beneath the muddy brown surface. He stepped further forward into the murk and the water rose to his calves.
Setting his jaw, he stomped forward, diligently ignoring the water pouring in over the tops of his hobnail boots.
As he soldiered forward, the water didn''t get any deeper, but stayed about at the same level. The whole area was like a huge shallow lake, dotted with cypress trees, with this one bit of land rolling up out of the middle of it.
D''khara found himself tripping on cypress knees, old roots that grew up beneath the lake but stayed just below the surface of the water. After the third one of these near misses, he was pouring out a steady stream of quiet curses, feeling his way with each foot before stepping forward.
He raised his eyes to gauge his distance to the island, and spotted Roger at the top of the tallest tree on the island, hanging dramatically from the tree with his legs and one hand wrapped around the trunk, leaning out with the other hand shading his eyes.
"Roger!" D''khara yelled as quietly as he could. "What are you doing?"
"I''m a pirate!" Roger called back in a loud clear voice.
"Get down! Someone is going to see you!"
"But. So many skies!"
"Get! Down!"
Roger blew a raspberry at him, and dropped from the tree, causing D''khara''s heart to stop for a brief moment. Roger lazily caught himself with one hand around another branch further down, swinging himself to another, then another, making his way down.
D''khara stomped forward, prepared to give Roger a piece of his mind, and firmly set his foot on top of one of the round, slippery cypress knees.
His foot shot out from under him, and he slammed face-first into the swamp so hard that his head rammed the silty ground under the water.
He yanked himself back up, coughing and sputtering, with siltwater streaming from his sinuses. He sat in the swamp, gasping and coughing for several minutes as he regained his equilibrium.
When he was able to breathe more or less normally again, he found Roger sitting on the sandy bank nearby, looking concerned.
"Miss Crawly is in love with me," Roger confided.
"Let''s just find the weapons cache, all right?"
The weapons cache on the island was, fortunately, unguarded, otherwise Roger and D''khara''s performance would have drawn a crowd. Drab black fiberglass crates were stacked haphazardly in a clearing, with no apparent rhyme or reason.
"Now we''re talking," D''khara said, rubbing his hands together.
"I wasn''t talking," Roger said.
Ignoring this, D''khara popped the clasps on one of the crates. Lifting the lid revealed a row of three rifles racked in the case.
D''khara pulled out the pouch of tools he''d brought with him and considered the weapons. He lifted the first of the rifles from the crate. A Borka Automat, but a much more recent model than anything found in the Riotfish HQ. The fundamentals didn''t change much, though. With practiced ease, he field-stripped the weapon, lifting out the trigger group, and using a punch and hammer from his kit, drove one of the pins out of the machinery. He slotted the trigger group back into place and re-assembled the rifle.The tale has been illicitly lifted; should you spot it on Amazon, report the violation.
"See Roger, without that retention pin, the trigger won''t re-engage with the sear once the action is cycled, so it won''t reset. They''ll be able to fire the first shot, but then they won''t be able to pull the trigger again. Neat, huh?"
"I''m magical!"
D''khara did the same to the other two rifles in the crate and moved on to the next crate, which was smaller than the one he''d just gone through.
He popped the latches and lifted the lid. The crate held a single large weapon. D''khara''s breath caught.
"That''s beautiful," he breathed.
Nestled in the crate was a classic weapon from the Second Corporate War, a Strauss .30 caliber machine gun. He reverentially lifted it out.
The bluing caught the harsh sunshine and smoothed it along the barrel, turning it into a gentle gleam that shone off its clean lines and heavily chamfered edges. The weapon was designed to be belt-fed, but it could also take a comical rotary magazine mounted on top.
"I can''t destroy this," he said. "It''s a work of art. Not many of them have survived this long."
"Do you want it?" Roger asked, making an outrageous face.
D''khara grew very still.
"Well, I hadn''t thought about it, but now that you mention it, yes, I want it. I want it very much. It wouldn''t be a danger to us back at the camp, would it? Do you think Fleer would mind? I mean, it''s a little silly but--"
His eyes fell on another crate, identical in size, and an idea sparked in his brain.
"We''re taking these two back with us," he said firmly.
"Only if, you have pants!" Roger said.
"Roger, do you ever say anything that makes sense?"
"Always! I''m a logician! A logicician! A logograph! I''m smarty!"
D''khara sighed, and started opening the next crate.
Little Timmy and Oliver peeped over one of the equipment crates surrounding the enemy location. They''d found a few encampments, mostly for sleeping and eating, but this seemed to be the primary base of operations.
Soldiers lounged around the grassy area, napping near the campfire or idly playing with their datapads. Weapons lay scattered around, some laying on the ground, some leaning against trees, and almost none within arm''s reach of anyone. Uniforms, where they were worn, were sloppy and ill-kempt, and the whole area reeked of laziness and indiscipline.
There were perhaps fifteen soldiers here. Clearly, they were not the only ones, some drifted out while others drifted in. Little Timmy didn''t recognize the uniforms. They were starkly generic, and the only markings were the requisite logos-- a left-pointing arrow followed by the letters "R/I".
The open area was part of an open stretch in the woods, a gently winding line of cut trees and cleared vegetation wide enough for a cargo truck to pass through. Some shells and gravel had been brought in to firm up the muckier parts of the ground.
"Interesting," Oliver said. "This entire clearing is almost complete. I think they''re nearly ready to begin their operation."
Little Timmy rolled his eyes.
"Uh, no? The gash dead-ends before Cryocorp. They still have hundreds of feet of woods to clear. Remember? Like, we just looked at it?"
"That''s deliberate, on their part. If they make too much noise, or break through early, Cryocorp will know they''re coming. That will ruin their element of surprise. They''ll probably finish opening that up while they attack. They''ve certainly got the manpower for it."
"Whatever. Who are these guys anyway?"
"I don''t recognize the logo. Probably mercenaries of some ilk. Judging by the quality of their uniforms, I can''t imagine they''re very expensive mercenaries."
"Ha! Losers."
"To be fair, Little Timmy, we''re not very expensive mercenaries."
"Yeah, but we''re awesome."
"Hmm. In any case, it''s an odd choice for them to put their base of operations right here where the gold will be coming through. I wonder if they have some other encampments further out."
"Uggggh. Look, you''ve been dragging me all up and down this gash all day. I say we call it done."
"I find it hard to believe, but you may be right. This looks like an ideal spot for an ambush. The trees close together here, and there''s rough land on both sides of the clearing."
"Gash," Little Timmy corrected.
"Hm. In any case, that should keep them from trying to bull through the forest directly. The, uh, road, if you will, curves west here. That will limit the ability of the ends of the convoy to support each other."
Oliver thought for a minute.
"Mining would work well here. We could place a few mines just around that bend. When the lead vehicle sets them off, I can disable the trailing vehicle with my Zentech cannon. That will trap the entire convoy between the wreckage, since the path here isn''t wide enough for any vehicles to move past each other or turn around. Of course, that only works if they''re driving very close to one another. It will make our job more difficult if they''re experienced enough to spread out."
One of the soldiers, with a "Hey guys, watch this!" took a running start to leap over the campfire. Just before his jump he tripped, sprawling full-length onto the fire. He rolled out with a scream, patting out his clothes to the laughter and jeering of his peers.
"Then again," Oliver amended, "they don''t strike me as forward thinkers."
Oliver nodded as he thought through the plan some more.
"Yes. We could place ourselves here along the east side, and start picking them off from cover. That will encourage them to flee on foot toward the west, and the road. Better if they can escape; our goal is to get rid of them, not necessarily kill them. After that, of course, we have the problem of what to do with the gold. We''ll have some time to work with that once the soldiers have departed. Hopefully they won''t decide to send in a second raid to retrieve it. Hm."
In the gash, two of the soldiers got into an argument, then a fistfight. The others gathered around, egging them on. The fight was painfully awkward to watch. Neither combatant fought with any finesse, it was all haymakers and wild swinging. Nobody stepped in to break up the fight or discipline the two. In a minute, one of them reeled away, bleeding.
"Bizarre," Oliver said. "I wonder who''s running this show. Definitely more of a hands-off management approach. Have you ever seen anything like that?"
Little Timmy responded with a gentle snore. Oliver looked down to see him leaned up against the stack of crates, napping.
"Hey, wake up!" Oliver hissed, tapping the recumbent mercenary with the back of his hand. Little Timmy started awake, dislodging the top crate. It slid off the stack and clattered to the ground.
With a mild oath, Oliver grabbed up Little Timmy by the back of his shirt and ran off into the woods. 35 - Getting To Know Little Timmy Better
Oliver was standing in the camp later, going over their findings with Fleer. D''khara and Roger had already debriefed, and were hanging out nearby. Oliver worked on a datapad that was hooked to the hardline spliced from Daugereaux''.
"That''s perfect," Fleer said, looking at the spot Oliver had marked out on the datapad''s map. "Deep enough in that Cryocorp can''t ''forget'' about the border and come in after, far enough back from the highway that they can''t try to break through. In a curve, so the rear won''t be able to support the lead and vice versa. Perfect. Great job, you two."
Oliver nodded smartly, swelling a little bit.
"Where''s Little Timmy?" Fleer asked.
"Ah, I''m not sure. He wandered off when we got back. Have you had any luck tracking down the source of these mercenaries?" Oliver asked, changing the subject.
Fleer shook his head.
"Nothing yet. Whoever''s behind this is covering their tracks very well. All I can tell so far is that these soldiers are all hired out to a small company named Ready/Impact, which is clearly just a front organization. The ownership is deliberately tangled through a bunch of overseas holdings companies, and the trail is hard to follow. They''re also not spending a bunch of money on men. They''ve got almost a hundred soldiers, but the guys they''re pulling in are real losers, junk soldiers, the cheapest of the cheap." Fleer handed over the datapad. "Look at these service records, most of these guys have been drummed out or just fired. Criminal convictions, theft, AWOL, dereliction. Yikes."
"But why save money on these guys?" Oliver asked.
Fleer frowned.
"I''m not sure. I guess they figure it''s a one-shot deal, and the chance of failure is so low that it doesn''t matter who they hire. I was also able to grab a copy of one of their employment contracts. Vicious."
"How so?" Oliver scanned the document. "Ouch. No hazard pay, no bonuses, no death benefits. And look at these indemnity clauses. Sheesh."
"How desperate do you have to be to sign something like that?"
Oliver and Fleer were marveling over the contract with their heads together when Little Timmy sauntered back into camp.
"Weebles!" Roger greeted him.
"Hi," D''khara said.
"Hey, just coming back from patrol," Little Timmy said, yawning and rubbing the sleep out of his eyes. "What''s going on?"
"Fleer''s been investigating the company behind the heist. We don''t know much about them, some company called Ready/Impact."
"Haha, no way! Those saucetags have been calling me for like, weeks now."
D''khara carefully did not respond to this.
"Anyway," D''khara said, "they have some decent weaponry. Had. That reminds me--" D''khara hefted the two Strauss machine guns he''d liberated from the weapons cache, and slid himself into the conversation between Oliver and Fleer.
"Mr. Fleer? When you have a moment, I''d like to talk to you about a little project I want to work on..."
D''khara looked around uncomfortably. He was patrolling with Little Timmy, which strained his patience at the best of times, since Little Timmy was constantly taking breaks for the bathroom, or because he was winded, or there was a bug in his ear, or any of a hundred excuses and complaints.
Currently, Little Timmy was sullenly poking through the woods beside him. The ground here was firm enough, and this far from the water, the mosquitoes weren''t so bad, but the heat, as always, was relentless. A permanent film of sweat covered both Riotfish, and the only movement of the hot, heavy air was their movement through the woods, which made Little Timmy''s reluctance to move all the more infuriating.This story has been stolen from Royal Road. If you read it on Amazon, please report it
For once, though, none of that bothered D''khara much. The looming specter of his responsibility dwarfed the dwarf''s concerns about Little Timmy''s laziness.
"Say, Little Timmy, you want to take a break?"
Without pausing or questioning it, Little Timmy flopped onto the ground and leaned up against a tree. D''khara found a place to lounge nearby, using all the nonchalance he could muster. He nervously rubbed the Goodlove rune on his shotgun.
This was the condition Fleer had set for his little project. D''khara was supposed to try to draw Little Timmy out about his mental illness. Perhaps a success here would reflect favorably in his 90-day evaluation.
"Be his buddy," Fleer had said. "See if you can help work through some stuff."
D''khara looked over at Little Timmy. He''d stripped off his uniform jacket and had it tied around his waist, leaving his top covered only in a wifebeater and his Kealans. His hat was rumpled and spun around backwards on head, and his equipment hung loose from his belt, clattering and clanging as they walked through the forest. The near-permanent sneer stuck to his lip as he stared off into the distance.
Buddy. Hmm.
"So," D''khara said with unconvincing nonchalance, "how do you and Dr. Navarre communicate?" D''khara asked. He was not at home with idle conversation or chatter, and had struggled mightily and prepared extensively for this offhand question.
Little Timmy turned to look at D''khara with surprise.
"We don''t," Little Timmy growled.
"Really? I thought, uh, you two were working on re-integrating back into a single personality. Is what Dr. Navarre said."
"He wants to re-integrate. I''m fine just like I am."
D''khara considered this.
"So you don''t want to be a single person again? It''s gotta be a pain to be switching all the time, sharing a single body."
Little Timmy fished a small stick recorder out of his pocket, the kind doctors use for transcriptions, and pressed play.
"Remember Little Timmy, happy thoughts inspire a happy life!" Dr. Navarre''s voice burbled tinnily out of the tiny device.
He pressed the "Advance" button.
"If you''re having a big feeling, take a deep breath and consider the other person''s point of view. They''re having a big feeling too!"
He pressed the "Advance" button again.
"Process your feelings. It''s okay to be angry, but don''t just stay there! Turn it into something productive as you let the negativity flow out of your body."
He clicked it off.
"Would you want that as part of you?" Little Timmy asked.
D''khara shrugged uncomfortably.
"I mean, if it were part of who I am?"
"That''s not me," Little Timmy said. He glared off into the afternoon sun. "I don''t owe him anything. Not him or anybody else. If anything, he owes me. His whole life he let people push him around and tell him what to do. His whole stupid, worthless life. Well, not me. I do what I want."
"What do you want, Little Timmy?"
Little Timmy started, and stared dumbly at the ground for a long moment before answering.
"To do what I want. I don''t ever want to be held up for something I don''t control." His fists clenched around his Kealans and grated their Picatinny rails against each other. "I won''t be held down on the whim of the moneymen. I won''t be subject to the power of the status quo. I won''t be happy just because someone thinks I should be."
"Oh," D''khara said. "Well, that''s good to know," he finished weakly, inviting the conversation to end.
"But Navarre, no, he wants to be happy all the time, he wants to get along, he wants to impress people who didn''t care when he was hurt, who didn''t care when they stepped on him, who didn''t care when they ran him out and tore him apart and destroyed everything he thought he was. They didn''t care when she died, when they both died, they didn''t care that it wasn''t even his fault! He wants them to like him again. I had to be the one who had killed them. He couldn''t handle it. He wants them to invite him back like nothing ever happened. He wants to smile and eat what they give him and to bow and to beg and to be good for them. He wants everything back. Just. Like. It. Was." He punctuated the end of each sentence by furiously ramming the barrels of his Kealans into the soft ground.
Little Timmy''s breath sawed heavily in and out of his lungs, and angry oily sweat rolled across his skin as his wild eyes swayed and darted, seeking unseen enemies.
"That''s quite interesting," added D''khara, fading back slightly. "Tell me, do you like pictures of kittens? I think I have some on my datapad..."
"There will come a day," Little Timmy growled in a flat, strained voice. He began ramming his Kealans into the dirt again. "There will come a day and there will come a time and there will come a place and their fat! Stupid! Smug! Faces! Are going to scream! And never! Stop!"
"Hi guys," Oliver said, walking up. "David wants to know if you''re going to make it to our strategy session today? You''re running late."
Little Timmy was standing, wild-eyed with pinprick pupils, tense knotted muscles clutching his guns, repeatedly curling them in and extending them out, with D''khara off to one side, trying to edge away without being noticed.
Without any warning, Little Timmy dropped his hands to his sides.
"Yeah, be right there," he said in a normal tone of voice, slinging his guns and following Oliver.
D''khara followed Little Timmy. From a distance. 36 - It All Goes Sideways
Fleer stood before the group, sweating in his fatigues. He knew he looked odd, out of a suit, and he felt odd and out of place. The swamp did not welcome him.
He stood on Daugereaux'' porch with all the Riotfish except for Roger spread out before him. Old man Daugereaux himself was in a rocking chair off to one side, with his eyes closed and his ball cap pulled down, apparently sleeping.
"Well men, as far as we can figure, today is the day. Activity is on the upswing, and they''ve cleared as much of the gash as they''re likely to. Roger''s keeping an eye on the Ready/Impact soldiers, and he''ll notify us when they start to move out."
"I want to thank everyone for scouting. Most of the intel we''ve captured confirms exactly what we thought-- they''re planning on hitting the Cryocorp facility and cleaning out the gold. Troops will open up the last of the gash as the attack starts. Empty cargo trucks will be coming in to the Cryocorp facility from the small road to the east, and should arrive right after they''ve captured the facility. They''ll load the trucks up, and drive out through the swamp. Right into our trap."
"Any troops that don''t break and run, we''ll pick at from the trees. Lots of movement, cover to cover, don''t stay still. Remember that these guys are undisciplined and poorly trained, they''ll probably focus fire on the last known hostile location and fall back to the trucks, which are going to be pretty poor defense. Hopefully that harassing fire will cause more to peel off. Once the rout starts toward the west they should all panic and run."
"We''ve got a solid plan. We''re outnumbered, but they''re expecting an easy smash-and-grab operation. They won''t be expecting us at all. We''ll hit them hard, and shock them into running away, and leaving behind--" Fleer faltered for a second-- "--their cargo. The gold. We all know what it would mean to pull this off perfectly. This will remake the Riotfish. We''ll get more people in, better facilities, modern equipment, and make a real company out of ourselves. Everything we''ve been wanting for so long will come together. All we have to do is reach out and take it."
Fleer''s radio crackled, and Roger''s voice came through flat and distorted.
"Pumpkin lollipops! Breathing all with funk and nonsense."
Fleer nodded.
"That''s it then. They''ve started to move out. Let''s get into position and put our plan into action! Break!"
The Riotfish scattered to check on the Ready/Impact camps, to verify that all the soldiers were evacuating. After that, they would converge on the line of ambush, spreading themselves out across hundreds of yards, with Roger near Cryocorp to report when the troops started to come back through with the gold.
Oliver loped off with a worried frown, D''khara with taut determination. Little Timmy sauntered away, realized he was going the wrong direction, and changed course to another direction, also wrong. Fleer watched them go, then picked up his Borka.
Guns in general weren''t really his style, and rifles even less so-- knifework was his preference-- but choosing the right tool for the job was important, and this was rifle work.
"You love dem boys?" Daugereaux asked without opening his eyes.
Fleer started and looked over. Daugereaux appeared to be fast asleep.
"I''m sorry?"
"I said, do you love dem boys? You puttin'' a awful lot out dere for dem."
"I''m... not quite sure what you mean."
"Chief, I live me in de swamp, but dat don''t mean I''m dumb and blind. I see what kinda mix you all in. Why you sticking dat neck out for dem? Dey ain''t great soldiers. Dey ain''t makin'' you lots of money. Dey sure ain''t pleasant to chat wit''. Why you stick wit'' dem?"
Fleer stood on the porch, rifle in one hand, staring awkwardly off into space.
"That''s... a good question. I suppose that none of them really fit anywhere else."
"Dat ain''t a reason. Dat''s just why dey ain''t anywhere else."If you stumble upon this tale on Amazon, it''s taken without the author''s consent. Report it.
"True. But I don''t fit anywhere else either."
"You don''t? Dat is a surprise to me, I had you figured for smoothin'' right into one of dem corprotations."
"I used to. I spent a lot of my life trying very hard to fit into a corpro-- a corporation. But I couldn''t get over my conscience."
A tiny smile pressed itself on Daugereaux'' otherwise still features.
"So you all is just kinda broken and you fit together den?"
"Not really. But they all need the Riotfish. I know what it is to need the Riotfish. And they''re all important to me. And yes, I love them.
Daugereaux sat in silence, his ball cap still pulled low, his expression slack. He was silent for so long that Fleer was wondering whether to leave, when Daugereaux spoke again.
"You is a odd duck, Mr. Fleer. I think I like you alright."
"Thank you, sir."
"Now don''t you start ''sir''in'' all at me. Go do your bidness you got to do. And good luck."
Fleer paused, nodded, and moved out.
The sun beat down through the gaps in the trees, and the air sizzled. The heat pressed relentlessly into every pore and crevice, pushing sweat out, sweat that rolled uselessly away, unable to evaporate in the heavy, humid air.
"Where are they?" D''khara growled, rubbing the rune on his shotgun. His thumb was almost raw now with how long and hard he''d been running it over the sharp engraving. "How long could it take to rob the place? And shouldn''t you be in your position?"
Oliver shot a guilty glance at D''khara, then worriedly scanned the ambush site.
"I haven''t heard anybody coming. Those cargo trucks would make a lot of noise. I was coming to see if you''d heard anything."
"No," D''khara rasped, his voice thick with irritation. "I haven''t heard anything. Radio silence, remember? Until the operation starts?"
"Little Timmy and Roger have gone to scout things out," Oliver said. "I''m sure they''ll be back soon with news."
The operation had begun more or less as expected. D''khara had gone to his assigned position and watched as the Ready/Impact soldiers had moved out. Watching from the shadows, it was clearer than ever that the Ready/Impact mercenaries were undisciplined, quarrelsome, and minimally supervised. It had taken nearly three hours for the soldiers to get on their way, with many disagreements about who should be where, what gear was whose, and all the general cuss and scufflery that accompanies a large group of indifferent soldiers scraping up against each other. Sergeants swore and slapped and tried to keep the men in line, with limited success.
After they''d all tromped off into the brightening heat of the swamp, not even leaving a rearguard, D''khara had moved quietly to the ambush site and settled in behind a pile of weapons crates to wait for their return.
The sun had climbed, peaked, and begun to sink while he waited and sweated. The tension had eased a couple hours in as boredom took over, then slowly crept back up as time passed.
"It''s been way too long," D''khara said, peeking over the crates. "Do you think they took the east road back out?"
"Surely not. Their op should be over soon. Maybe they got stuck further up the gash?"
"I don''t know. I can''t shake the feeling that something''s gone very wr-- who''s that?" D''khara hissed, snapping his shotgun up.
He brought his sights to bear on a figure in dull camo that stumbled into the ambush zone fifty yards away.
The man tripped, fell full-length into a patch of cattails, and stopped moving.
"Oliver, you need to get back to your station! The soldiers are on their way in!"
"No, he''s hurt," Oliver said, mantling the crates they were hiding behind and running toward the man. D''khara hesitated for a second, then followed. As he drew near, a couple of things became clear. One, this was definitely one of the Ready/Impact soldiers. Two, he was no threat to anybody, not with that big, oozing hole in his side. Three... well, D''khara''s instincts were right. Something had gone terribly, terribly wrong. Oliver scanned the surrounding woods on high alert as D''khara began to work on the soldier.
"They''re killing us," the soldier rasped quietly as D''khara pulled bandages out of his belt pack. "Trap. Trap."
"Don''t talk," D''khara said, applying pressure to the wound. Blood immediately soaked through the thick wad of bandages as the soldier grunted in pain. "Just rest, you''re okay now."
Oliver keyed his radio. "David, we''ve got a problem. Something''s gone wrong with their operation." A sharp squeal pierced his radio as he let off the key, and he winced. "What on earth? Are we being jammed?" He experimentally keyed his radio a few more times, causing the ear-piercing squeal to ring out each time. "We''re being jammed! Who''s jamming us?"
"Trap, trap, trap," the soldier repeated quietly, his voice fading.
"Quiet, you. Unless you have something useful to say," D''khara groused, packing the wound.
"Should I go find David?" Oliver fretted.
"There''s no guarantee he''s still in his position, either," D''khara said, glaring at Oliver. "There''s no telling where anybody is, and with no radio, we have no way of finding out."
"Maybe this guy can tell us something."
D''khara moved his glare to the soldier.
"I don''t think he''s telling anybody anything," D''khara said. "He must have run the whole way back bleeding like that."
The soldier''s face was locked in an anguished rictus, gazing unseeingly into the sky. Oliver gently closed the man''s eyes.
"What now?" Oliver asked.
"I don''t know. You''re the strategist. What now?"
Oliver worried at a thumbnail.
"Let''s sit tight. Everyone knows this is the ambush zone. It''s central to our plan. I''ll bet the others will make their way here before too long." 37 - Investigation
Oliver was wrong. It was nearly another hour before they heard rustling in the brush. They both brought their weapons to bear on the noise.
"Who goes there?" D''khara called.
"Caw, caw," came the response.
D''khara lowered his gun.
"Did you just say ''caw, caw''?" he shouted hoarsely.
"Yes?" came Little Timmy''s reply.
"That''s supposed to be a crow call. You''re not just supposed to say ''caw''!"
"How do I know what crows sound like?" retorted Little Timmy. "I''ve only ever seen pictures!"
"Well, get over here! What did you find? Where''s Roger?"
Little Timmy ran over, hopping adroitly over the body in the clearing.
"Roger ran off when we got close to the border of Cryocorp territory. Said something crazy and ran toward the facility. What''s with the stiff?" he asked, jerking a thumb over his shoulder at the Ready/Impact soldier.
"One of their guys, shot up bad. Did you see anybody else?"
"No, nobody. The whole gash is as dead as that guy. No trucks, no gunfire, no nothing."
"What''s going on?" Fleer asked, walking up from behind. The group started, and Little Timmy screamed a little. "Also, you guys should keep a better watch. What''s up?"
They filled Fleer in on what they knew so far.
"Hmmm." He looked thoughtful for a long moment. "I don''t like this. Something''s wrong. Little Timmy, did you say Roger ran off to scout the area?"
"I guess? He said something like ''I''m a pretty pretty princess'' and ran that way."
"Yeah, sounds like he went to hunt up a little more info. Who''s that?" Fleer asked, pointing toward the body.
"That''s the Ready/Impact guy we were telling you about."
"No, I mean, who''s that going through his pockets?" Fleer asked, quietly lowering himself behind the crates.
There was a man dressed all in black, crouched over the body. As the Riotfish watched, he yanked off the soldier''s identitag and scanned it with his datapad. Nodding to himself, he tucked it away in his pocket and prepared to leave, when his eye was caught by the mess of bandages D''khara had pressed to the man''s wound. He peered closely at them.
Pocketing his datapad and raising his rifle, he scanned the area. The Riotfish sat perfectly still, their guns trained on the stranger. He moved away from the body, scanning the woods in sweeping arcs as he moved out in a spiral.
He moved closer and closer to the crates. All the slack was gone in the Riotfish''s triggers as he neared.
The stranger was only 30 feet from the Riotfish''s hiding place when his thick watch beeped. He glanced at it and suddenly jogged off into the woods, away from the Riotfish.
"Who was that?" Oliver asked, once the stranger was gone.
"Not one of the Ready/Impact soldiers," Fleer said quietly. "Did you see how he moved? That was a professional. Not just some chump guard. And now he knows someone else is here."
Fleer slid down and sat in the dirt while the Riotfish clustered around him. He frowned deeply for a minute, and pulled out his datapad. He spun through some data, and thought some more.
"Fellows," he said, "I think we might be in trouble."
"Are the trucks not coming?" Little Timmy asked.
"I don''t know. We need to check out the Cryocorp facility. A hundred guys didn''t just up and vanish. And we have to know where the gold is. We need to get over there and see what''s going on."This story originates from a different website. Ensure the author gets the support they deserve by reading it there.
"David, can we do that?" Oliver asked. "Legally?"
Fleer considered things for a bit, then poked his head over the crates, looking at the body.
"Did anybody see who shot that man?"
A round of negatives circled the group.
"Neither did I. But I did see someone-- possibly his murderer-- rifling the body. And he ran back in the direction of the Cryocorp facility."
"Did he? I thought he ran--"
"Shut up, Timmy. And so, I think we should track this murder suspect, which gives us coverage under the Good Samaritan Tracking clause in the Standard Inter-Territorial Agreement, in the unlikely event that we track him back to the Cryocorp facility."
Oliver nodded.
"That could work. In arbitration. Out here, though, we''ll probably still be shot at."
"So let''s make every effort not to be seen. That will make things easier all around."
"Is Roger going to be okay?" D''khara interjected. "With a professional out there somewhere?"
"Roger? Oh, he''ll be fine. He''s in his element here."
"The swamp?"
"The chaos. Let''s go."
Fleer held his rifle low as he crept through the woods. Worry gnawed at him, spurring his feet faster, but caution kept his pace slow and quiet.
Not that his quiet mattered much, with the rest of the Riotfish crashing along behind him. D''khara, especially, was ill-suited to stealthcraft, but at least he was making an effort to keep his hoarse swearing quieter than his crashing around.
They were traveling parallel to the gash, staying several hundred feet in the cover of the woods, tracking back toward the Cryocorp facility. Excepting the Riotfish, the woods were unnaturally quiet. No birds sang, nothing moved, and even the relentless cicadas were taking a break from their endless song. The gash itself was bare and empty. No more wounded soldiers reeled back. No more mystery men in black appeared. No trucks full of gold rumbled by.
They neared the border of Cryocorp land. Fleer motioned everyone to stop, and he pulled out a pair of binoculars. He strapped a scanner onto the eyepieces, plugged the whole assembly into his datapad and stared at the screen as he swept the binoculars back and forth over the grounds.
The trees and underbrush stopped directly at the border, as cleanly as if cut with a knife. The Cryocorp land was a tidy, well-maintained lawn with gentle swells. It had a small pond with a fountain in it. A tall, grim concrete building dominated the tasteful landscape, overcoming the greenery with Brutalist architecture. A small parking lot was tucked away behind the building to the east, with a narrow road leading away.
There were no trees or bushes more than knee-high, nor cover within two rifle-shot lengths of the building itself.
"Where are the sappers?" asked Oliver quietly. "I thought they were going to be cutting the rest of the gash open."
"Charges," Little Timmy pointed out. "Look over there. They must''ve strapped those explosives to the big trees since you and I checked this out. They can blow those and just drive the trucks right over the smaller trees."
Oliver nodded.
"That makes sense, but then why haven''t they blown the charges yet? I don''t hear any shooting."
Little Timmy shrugged.
Fleer spent many long minutes scanning. The building had a single point of entry on its south side, a pair of roll-up cargo doors. One was closed, but the other was slightly open, rolled up about three feet. The interior was dark and impenetrable, looking at it from the bright outside. Fleer fiddled with the scanner controls, but was unable to get a clear view inside.
After scanning, he sighed, and packed away the scanner and binoculars, and stared at the facility.
"Okay," he said finally. "I am going to go in there. Now, this is a legally questionable action, and I''m not going to ask any of you to come with me. You should stay here until I come back, and keep watch."
"Permission to go on break, sir?" D''khara asked.
"Huh?"
"I would like to take a break, sir. I have not had my contract-enforced break yet today. I get two short breaks and a long break every full workday. I''d like my break now." Fleer stared at him in puzzlement. "On my break, my own personal free time, I might take a walk on these grounds. Independent of any liability to Riotfish."
Fleer laughed with delight.
"Well you''ll fit right in the corporate world before you know it, thinking like that. It''s not as serious as all that. I''m not ordering anybody to stay back. Just know that we''re getting into some mucky legal territory here."
"I don''t worry about the legal stuff," D''khara said.
Fleer''s delight paled and he sighed a little, with a mix of fondness, longsuffering and exasperation.
"All right, well who''s coming with?" he asked. All of the Riotfish raised their hands.
"Okay. There''s no cover, so we''ll need to get across that open ground as fast as we can. Looks like about four or five hundred yards. We''ll gather at the edges of that open cargo door. Ready? Go!"
The Riotfish moved toward the building at various speeds. Oliver easily loped ahead of everyone, distantly followed by Little Timmy, and then Fleer, with D''khara bringing up the rear. They assembled on either side of the door.
Looking at it up close, it was clear there was going to be no stealthy entry. The door was rolled open to hip-height, and even up close the interior was too dark to see into. Fleer motioned to Oliver and D''khara to roll up the door, so that he and Little Timmy could sweep into the facility.
They nodded, did a three-count, and heaved upward on the door. It rattled up another foot and stopped hard. Fleer and Little Timmy had to step back, as they had already started moving in. Crouching, they squat-walked into the facility. Oliver and D''khara readied their weapons and followed.
Once inside, their eyes adjusting to the light, they were able to stand up fully.
"Oh," said Oliver into the stunned silence. "Oh no." 38 - Fleer Exposed
The cargo doors led into a loading area several stories tall and wide open. The ceiling vanished in the distance overhead. The concrete-and-brutalist theme from the exterior carried into the interior. Worn yellow tape marked out zones on the floor. Pallets, disassembled parts of shelving and other equipment were lined tidily against the walls. Bare steel walkways lined the walls on either side, thirty feet up from the floor. A pair of swinging doors adorned the far wall, leading further into the facility.
The Riotfish were on high alert, scanning for danger, mostly because of all the dead bodies lying scattered on the floor.
Thick, dark blood pooled around the bodies. They were all dressed in the unimaginative, dull uniforms of Ready/Impact. Nobody else was around.
The bodies were clustered together in groups near the sparse cover: steel shelving, a stack of crates, and a loose pile of steel plating had attracted a number of soldiers. They were clearly laying where they''d been shot down. Nobody had moved them at all.
"Okay, what happened to all these cheeseballs?" squeaked Little Timmy. "Who killed them?"
"Look at the wounds," Oliver said. "They were shot from overhead." As one, the Riotfish'' guns swung up to the walkways above, but nothing up there stirred.
"Little Timmy," Fleer breathed, "can Dr. Navarre take a look at these guys?"
"Yeah no," Little Timmy said. "Navarre is not even coming out in this."
D''khara was trying not to look too closely at the bodies. He''d seen bodies before, but this was a new scale for him. He felt sick as he realized that all the work he''d done sabotaging the rifles had not protected the Riotfish, but had rendered the Ready/Impact soldiers completely incapable of defending themselves from whatever had happened here.
In a desperate bid to think about literally anything else, he fixed his gaze high, on his surroundings, away from his guilt bleeding all over the floor. It slowly dawned on him that there was something off about the facility itself.
"This place looks abandoned," D''khara said. "Those chain barriers have been up for ages; they''re almost rusted through. And those dock plates haven''t been used in years, there are rust holes. And where are the forklifts? And the shelves? What kind of loading dock is this?"
Oliver was bending down, examining one of the soldiers.
"He''s missing his identitag." Oliver moved to another body. "This one, too. I think they''re all missing."
"No," Fleer whispered. "No. No no no no no!" He dashed to the doors at the back of the loading area.
"David, wait!" Oliver called. But Fleer did not wait. He slammed through the doors and ran into the facility.
Oliver bolted after Fleer, with the rest of the Riotfish trying to keep up. They didn''t go too far before they found him, his rifle hanging loosely from one hand, standing in a cavernous room. The room had many floor-to-ceiling cages, each cage filled with empty shelves. Broken pallets were stacked in odd piles around the cages.
The Riotfish piled in behind Oliver as Fleer took fumbling steps deeper into the room.
"There''s... nothing," he said.
His rifle clattered to the ground and he sank down to his knees with his back to his crew, staring at all the empty shelves. Oliver approached him cautiously.
"David? What''s wrong?"
Fleer barked a crazy laugh and gestured at the empty shelves.
"Our gold!" he cried. "Look at it all! Our solvency! Our salvation!" he hiccuped a sound halfway between laughter and weeping.
"What do you mean?"
"I mean nothing! There''s no gold! Look at this! These things haven''t been opened in years. Years!"
The thick layer of dust on the shelves and the generally poor condition of the cages affirmed Fleer''s assessment.
"I don''t understand."
"There is no loading equipment! There are no cargo trucks! There is no gold! There''s nothing!"
"But how? Did they move it? And who killed all those soldiers? And where is everybody?"
Fleer sank in on himself.
"I don''t know. I don''t know anything. All I know is that I screwed it all up and we''re done for."
"Now David, that kind of negative talk is not helping anything. I know it''s a disappointment, but it''s not nearly the disaster you''re making it out to be. We''ll finish up this contract and you can get us other work to--"
"He can''t," D''khara said. Fleer, with his back to his crew, managed to shrink even more, as though he knew what was coming.
"What do you mean, he can''t?" Oliver''s voice rose a register. "Of course he can. He''s gotten us all kinds of work."
"I overheard him talking with Pearce. We''re still on the hook for the Crediture loan. They''re on track to shut us down in a couple weeks." Seventeen days, to be precise. Nicely coinciding with the 90-day evaluation that he''d never have now.If you encounter this tale on Amazon, note that it''s taken without the author''s consent. Report it.
Oliver was quiet for a long moment. His breathing sounded loud in his ears, filling the cavernous room. Focusing on his breathing helped keep his rising panic damped down.
"David, is this true?" Oliver asked.
Fleer simply sat there staring at the floor, an answer as clear as a shout.
"I''m sorry," he muttered finally. "I thought I''d fixed this."
"Typical," Little Timmy snorted. "Once a corper, always a corper."
"Why have you been lying to us?" Oliver said in the careful tones of one who was balanced on the vanishingly narrow peak between terror and rage.
"We couldn''t--" Fleer struggled quietly. "After the Adler acquisition, Pearce wouldn''t back off, wouldn''t cut us any slack. Our finances, the jobs we could get, there was no way we could pull it off. It just wasn''t possible. But with the gold! We could have saved the Riotfish and so much more!" He lifted his head to stare into the distance. "With the gold we could have done everything we ever wanted. But it never existed. It was a fool''s hope. There was never any chance for the Riotfish. And now Pearce is going to come back and look down his nose at us and say ''I told you so'' and he''ll be right. He''ll be right."
Fleer''s head dropped again.
"Excuse me for a moment," Oliver said in a strangled voice. He turned and stiffly walked out of the room. A minute later, from the far side of the loading dock, through all the walls, there arose a terrible growl that spiked into a petrifying roar, a sound that gripped the bottom of the spine and popped up every hair and goosebump all the way to the scalp. This was followed by a series of tremendous bangs and crashes. The walls rattled with each impact, and dust sifted down from the shock.
The rest of the Riotfish huddled closer together. For long, terrifying minutes the building swayed and shook with the shrieks of torn metal and the smashing of demolished walls. Then the noise died down.
Oliver walked back in, covered in concrete dust, with his hair and outfit askew.
"My apologies," he said. "I just needed a moment to vent."
D''khara stepped in quickly.
"I... I think this is my fault," he said. "I know I didn''t say anything about it earlier, but I have this bad luck. I didn''t mean to bring this on everyone, I just hoped it would--"
"This wasn''t luck," Fleer said in a monotone. "This was a choice. My choice."
D''khara, his mouth stuck open halfway between words, didn''t know what to say.
"Your choice, David," Oliver said, "that you did not share with us."
"I just didn''t want everyone to worry. I-- no, I have to be honest. I just didn''t want to have to tell you. I''ve supported you all for so long, it''s just not right."
"You supported us, but you didn''t believe in us. The Riotfish, we''re more than just a company. Can''t you feel it, David? We''re family. And as a family we can forgive each other. But as a family we have to trust each other."
Fleer heaved a shuddering breath that was a hair''s-breadth from being a sob.
"What am I supposed to do?" he cried. "There''s nowhere for you all to go. Nothing to do. And once the company''s defunct, the assassins will be out after me. I''ll have to head into the Between to survive." He stared blankly at the floor. "Or not. I should just wait for them."
"Don''t talk like that or I''ll get angry again," Oliver said.
"Yeah," Little Timmy chimed in. "You gonna go full corper on us, check out and leave everybody else to deal with your problems?"
Fleer shook his head.
"I''ve always believed that if we can work, we can win. Well we can''t work, and we can''t win."
"But we can move forward." Oliver said. "Let''s finish this job. Then we can figure out what''s next."
Fleer nodded, his face exhausted and expressionless. With agonizing slowness, he dragged himself to his feet, picking up his rifle, with his back still to the Riotfish.
The Riotfish filed out of the storage room, leaving him alone for a moment.
Fleer took a long look at the rifle in his hand, but shook his head again. In the stillness he was alone. Truly alone for the first time in ages. The silence rang in his ears.
Family. They should be, they''d been through enough together. Which made his failure all the more galling.
Fat tears squeezed out and dropped onto the dead, dusty concrete floor. His face crumpled, but he never made a sound.
He couldn''t even keep his family together.
He tried to sort out where everybody would end up. Little Timmy would probably land back in prison before long. Oliver could go to his clan in a pinch, though that wasn''t ideal. D''khara had hinted that returning to the mines wasn''t an option, but he was a hard worker, surely he could get a job somewhere. Mrs. Meade didn''t have any family he was aware of-- there was no telling what would happen to her. Maybe she had some savings set aside to live on? And he and Roger... maybe he and Roger could head out of the city, find Roger''s original home and hide out there.
But the city was to Fleer as water is to a fish. It wasn''t something he loved or hated, but it was a part of him. A part of him he needed as deeply as he needed the Riotfish.
They''d been so close. But it had been foolish to think he could pull off a greater theft than a corporation. To think his crew could outwit the executive mindset. To think that he could fix things.
His crew just wasn¡¯t capable enough. He sighed.
Then a thought occurred to him.
That was wrong, wasn''t it? After all, during the Adler job, they''d locked down an entire corporate building, right in the middle of the Corporate District. They''d fought off waves of highly-trained, well-equipped soldiers with, well, with the equipment the Riotfish had. Even the Byrd mansion fiasco had its highlights: they hadn''t nabbed the files, but they had fought their way into and out of a fortified mansion, in a direct shootout, despite being outrageously outnumbered.
It slowly dawned on him that his crew, while not what one might call traditionally competent, had their own way of getting things definitively done.
He had never given up on the Riotfish. He''d never given up on them because he''d never believed in them in the first place.
He rubbed his temples.
If only he''d realized earlier. He should have stopped thinking about running the Riotfish and started thinking about being a Riotfish. He should have been solving problems the Riotfish way instead of trying to suck back up to the corporate world.
What would the Riotfish do?
He grinned a little at the thought. Engage in breathtaking scope of collateral damage, probably.
It was here, in the depths of his most abject and complete failure, that he realized what he would miss most about the Riotfish.
Not Riotfish the company. That was a riddled mess of debt and bad decisions. Not his success as a mercenary executive. He recognized that he was mediocre, at best. Not even his childhood dreams, with the flash and excitement of the mercenary life, driven by foolish hero stories.
He''d miss Oliver''s terrible cooking. And Mrs. Meade''s knitting. Roger''s unpredictable shenanigans. D''khara''s grouching. Even Little Timmy''s attitude. That''s what he''d miss.
Oliver was right. Riotfish wasn''t a company, they were a family. And family could screw up and stick together-- would stick together-- regardless of articles of incorporation.
He lifted his head. They might not be Riotfish for much longer, but he would find a way to keep his family together. The Riotfish way.
With firm determination, he wheeled and marched to the door. 39 - Discovering Tapstrike
Roger was not back at base camp when they arrived. Fleer set everyone to striking camp while he sat in his camp chair, spinning through the contract information on his datapad. He wasn''t really seeing. He knew he needed to get over to Daugereaux to let him know the contract was done, but he was wrung out. He was utterly drained.
"Oooh, nippy-snippy sads, like a gelding."
Fleer lifted his head to see Roger sauntering back into camp.
"Oh hey, Roger. Glad to see you made it back. You doing okay?"
"As tasty rain!" he chirped. "Happy lending a hand!" So saying, he held a strip of raw flesh out to Fleer.
Fleer recoiled.
"Roger, why do you have that?"
"It''s handy!" So saying, he carefully laid the flesh on Fleer''s knee.
"Ugh." Fleer gingerly picked up the flayed flesh and tossed it away.
Roger cocked his head. He loped off, retrieved the strip of skin and brought it back.
"I, won it hands down!" he said, laying the flesh back on Fleer''s knee.
"Roger, stop it. You''re not funny, and I''m not in the mood." He brushed the flesh off his leg onto the grass.
Roger carefully picked up the flesh, and stared at Fleer, who was avoiding his gaze.
"Antigifting?"
"Roger, that''s not a gift. It''s just something gross you cut off of one of those dead guys."
"Hahaha! What''s dead guys?"
"The dead guys in the Cryocorp facility."
Roger looked confused.
"Nope. All under trees and gruntbuggly. No messes in the woods!"
Fleer looked up at him.
"You didn''t go into the Cryocorp facility?" Roger shook his head. "Did you take this from the dead man at the ambush site?" Roger shook his head again. "Roger, where did you get this?"
"Oooh, all scary dark and poke-pokey! Excitement! And necklaces!" So saying, Roger pulled a handful of dozens of identitags out of his pocket.
Fleer sat bolt upright.
"Where did you get these?"
Roger shrugged.
"It was in their pocketses!"
Fleer took the strip of skin from Roger and carefully unrolled it. It was the flesh from the palm and fingers of a man''s hand. He considered it for a moment, then pulled out his datapad. He connected it to the hardline shunt and proceeded to perform the nastiest hand scan of his entire life.
His datapad beeped as it processed the scan. It worked sluggishly as it struggled to pull a signal through the patchwork of cabling Oliver had cobbled together.
Fleer dropped the skin and tried to wipe off the datapad as best he could while it churned through the data.
"Roger, the man you got those from, was he dressed all in black?"
"Yep!"
"Hmm."
The datapad beeped. Fleer looked at the data streaming by. He scowled, poked through some data. Scowled some more, poked some more. He lowered his datapad and stared off into the distance.
"Well? Who was it?" Oliver asked.
"Huh? Oh. Rayvan Cross. He worked for Tapstrike Ltd. as a mercenary. Nothing at all to do with Ready/Impact."
"Holy cow, how many mercenaries are there in this swamp?"
Fleer stared off into space, still concentrating, when an ugly suspicion occurred to him.
"Roger. The man that this came from... he''s dead, yes?"This book is hosted on another platform. Read the official version and support the author''s work.
"...yyyyyyyes?" Roger said, without much conviction.
"Was there anybody else with him?"
"One! And one more! And a half! All ketchup pops!"
"Four? So there was more than one guy out there. Let me look into this Tapstrike a little more."
Fleer hunted through the data while everybody stood around pretending to be patient.
"What in the-- Tapstrike Ltd. is not just any mercenary outfit. They''re high-end black bag specialists. ''For when you need things quiet'' according to their tagline." He flipped through some more data. "Very discreet. Great ratings." Fleer paused, whistling through his teeth. "They''re not cheap, either. Whoever hired them was not afraid to spend some money on their men. Unlike our friends at Cryocorp."
"But why? What''s to keep quiet out here?"
"All those soldiers apparently. And-- oh no. We need to get back to Daugereaux now. Grab your guns and let''s move!"
Fleer was sitting in Daugereaux'' cabin, banging his head on the kitchen table while the Riotfish stood around looking at each other uncomfortably. Daugereaux had a grim expression as Ma Daugereaux stirred something in the background that smelled of old boots and peppers.
Fleer''s datapad lay on the table, scrolling a feed of data by, unheeded.
"How could I have been so stupid?" Fleer moaned.
"Yeah, well, par for the course is all I''m saying," Little Timmy muttered.
"What did you figure out?" Oliver asked.
Fleer lifted his head and stared balefully at Oliver.
"All of it," Fleer said.
"I still don''t understand what happened," D''khara asked. "Did Cryocorp call in Tapstrike to take over from Ready/Impact?"
"No," Fleer said. He idly spun the datapad on the table. "Because Ready/Impact didn''t fail."
"But they all died," D''khara said quietly.
"Which was exactly what they were supposed to do."
"I don''t understand," Oliver said.
"Think back through this. Bring yourself back a couple years. Cryocorp is cash-poor, right?" Oliver nodded at this. "But they have a giant pile of gold. What''s the problem?"
Oliver considered this for a moment.
"I''m not sure. I suppose you couldn''t buy your groceries with a gold bar. I don''t mean to be insolent, but I don''t quite perceive their problem."
"No, you put your finger right on it. They can''t pay bills with bars of gold. They need cash. They can borrow with the gold as collateral, but that interest mounts up quick, and they need every credit to keep the business operating. They could just sell it, but dumping that much of a commodity on the market at once would depress it."
"So sad," Roger said.
"No, not sad, depressed. The price of a commodity, such as gold, will nosedive with such a sudden supply, and the Harrigans needed to maximize their capital. They even took the business public, remember? Just to boost the cash flow. They had to keep the shareholder''s capital, keep the gold to borrow against, and still pay the bills. On top of that, in the last couple years, the Harrigan brothers have been buying all the stock back in order to take it private again. But where''s all that money coming from? All of the family fortune was tied up in the business."
"Did they have some smart investments?"
"If they had those smart investments, they''d have used them instead of taking the company public."
Oliver nodded. "Point. Where would they acquire the kind of capital it would take to repurchase the company?"
"Here''s my theory," Fleer said. "The Harrigan brothers were panicked, and wanted to take the company private again. They didn''t have the funds for it, so they were selling the company''s gold on the sly, slowly over time, and using the proceeds to buy back the company stock for themselves."
"But why buy back the company?"
"They can take the company private again if they own a majority of the voting shares. Buy out the majority, vote themselves into the positions they want and push some of that oversight back."
"So they were buying the company with the company''s gold?"
"Illegal wumpkis!" Roger said.
"You''re right about that. To say nothing of the shareholder lawsuits. They''d have lawyers lined up around the building just to serve papers."
Little Timmy finally took enough interest in the conversation to chime in.
"What does all that have to do with a warehouse full of dead guys?"
"Good question. So, they''ve basically stolen the company''s gold, sold it, and have been buying back the company. What''s their problem now?"
"At some point, somebody''s going to want to see the gold," Oliver said. "An auditor."
"Exactly right. So they have a ticking time bomb in the form of an empty warehouse. How do they explain it?"
"The dog ate my homework!" Roger said.
"That''s pretty close. The official story, I''m betting, is that ''we got robbed and they took all our gold.'' It''s a stunning maneuver."
"Wait, I don''t get it. Who set up Ready/Impact?" Little Timmy asked.
"Cryocorp did."
"But then who hired Tapstrike?"
"Cryocorp did."
"What kind of stupid plan is that?" Little Timmy asked.
"Cryocorp created Ready/Impact to ''rob'' their facility. That gives them their cover story for what happened to the gold. Then they hired Tapstrike to cover it up. So they''ve got a lot of bodies for dramatic effect, an empty warehouse, and a plausible narrative for the stakeholders."
Fleer gripped his head.
"Oh, and the insurance. Agh! They can file a loss claim on the whole amount of gold they had. They''re effectively triple-dipping money out of the gold supply. Quadruple-dipping? I''ve lost count. In any case, it only works if nobody else knows anything about it, and Cryocorp can maintain full control of the narrative."
"They hired all those men just to kill them?" D''khara''s features hardened into a grim frown.
"Dat ain''t gon'' stand," Daugereaux said. The Riotfish, focused on Fleer''s narrative, hadn''t been paying him any attention, but Daugereaux had been seething, getting redder and angrier while Fleer had been laying out Cryocorp''s machinations. Now, his voice was raggedly quiet and dangerous.
"I ain''t gonna have it. It ain''t right. Dat ain''t right, what dey done. Dey done it to my family in ''92, and dey done it again today, and I ain''t gonna have it!" He was roaring, slamming his fist down on the table in the midst of the Riotfish, who backed away from his raw fury.
"I understand you''re upset," Oliver said, "But what do you mean? What''s happening again?"
Daugereaux slowly straightened and stared off into the distance. Then he started to tell his story. 40 - Daugereaux Story
Daugereaux spoke, his voice distant and coarse with old pain.
"It was about ''86 or so, when I got dis land. It was old family land, and my daddy was a only son and I was a only son, so everybody knowed where de land was gon'' end up. When mon pere died, it reverted to my parrain, my grandfather, and he give it straight back down to me."
"I did not respect de gift like I should have. I thought dat I deserved better, some of de better land up de bayou, but dat was land belong to my gran''mere an'' dem''s side, and dat side of de family never did much care for my parrain. He was a hard man, and he did not shy away from tellin'' a fool when he was doin'' a fool thing."
Daugereaux paused and rubbed his eyes.
"It was in ''90 dat de Second Corp''rate War started. We din''t hear too much about it down here, we was just mindin'' our own. But den de awlmen came."
"Dey started so nice, ''oh shah, you got dis ol'' useless land, we''ll give you money to buy it off you for dem mineral rights,'' and all dat. Dey was spreadin'' around money wit'' a thick hand, all over de bayou. Dey got a lot of my gran''mere''s folks, eyes wide wit'' lustin'' for dat money. Cousins, uncles, nieces, dey all turned over dey land."
"I got to admit, I was thinkin'' dat way myself, but my parrain, he pull me aside and he say how mon pere would not want me to sell my birthright to dese men dat come around. I scoffed him some, said dat if de land was wort'' money, I should get my share, since all de best land gone up de other side of de family. He say, ''First off, what you gon'' do wit'' dat money? You got to go to de city to spend it. You jus'' watch, all dese kin gon'' end up in a town. Second, look what dat money is doin'' to ''em. See how it gets in dey eyes, and in dey hearts.''"
"Well I din''t like dat too much, but after he done said all dat, I couldn''t help but noticin'' how dere was less people in de bayou. We always had lots of family, lots of friends and folks always around-- dat is how you survive out dis way. But dere wasn''t as many as before. De awlmen was handin'' out jobs. Dey would buy de land, give ''em money, and den give ''em jobs, all up in town. I seed dey was buyin'' up de whole bayou, not de land, but dey was buyin'' up de people, too. An'' it was jus'' like my parrain said, dat money got into dey hearts and dey heads until dey was no good for nothin'' but going into town."
Daugereaux sighed.
"Well, de war got het up, and de awlmen got het up too. Dey started handin'' out more money for de land. Den dey was offerin'' land for land, but in de city. Den dey come to me."
"I told ''em to just go on. I already had my land and what all I needed. Dey could just buy up somebody else, as far as I was concerned. Dese two awlmen, dey grin at me all greasy-like, and said more money at me. Well I told ''em I din''t want none of dat money, and run ''em off. Den dey got my second cousin Aloysius to come at me."
"Now me and Aloysius was never really friends, but we got along all right. He was a momma''s boy, din''t like de hardness of de swamp and drawin'' a living from de land, so it was no surprise to me when he was one of de first ones to sell off and move out. He was always a city boy in his heart."
"Well he come around like family, an'' I brung him in an'' fed him an'' slep'' him an'' all. But den he starts in wit'' de awlmen, how come I should sell, how all-fired wonderful things was out in town. I told him off, but he wouldn''t shut up, and I ended up kickin'' him halfway back to town, he made me so mad."
"Well right around den is when de awlmen started gettin'' ugly. Dey kilt my dog, dey knocked a big ol'' hole in de cistern, dey tore up our garden and tangled our trotlines. Me an'' parrain was about de only ones left by den, although I think Aloysius was helpin'' dem awlmen out some. We jus'' went about, fixing what we could, cleanin'' up. We figured dat sooner or later dey would get tired of dem games and move on."
"We din''t figure on how dey could keep on hasslin'' us longer den we could abide. Dat winter was mighty thin, and dey just kep'' at us. Den spring came, an'' we couldn''t hardly get nothin'' to eat. We couldn''t grow no crops and dey burnt de barn and kilt all de livestock. I had already started to turn my squirrel gun on what fellers I seed creepin'' around, but we couldn''t stay awake all over de clock."This book''s true home is on another platform. Check it out there for the real experience.
Daugereaux stopped for a minute, his face drawing in.
"My parrain passed dat spring. I don''t know dat it was exzactly de fault of de awlmen, but dey was sure putting the age on him awful fast. After I buried him I tried to keep de line, but when dey messed wit'' his grave, dat was de last straw."
"I knew I had to get away from dese bad men, and I knew I could not do it by myself. I reburied parrain and hid his grave, and dat is when I joined up to fight in de war."
"Of course, to do dat, I had to pick a corprotation. I did not do me a lot of lookin'' up, I jus'' picked one dat sounded powerful. I joined up wit'' Bertrand & Ramande. Because of dat, I got shipped out, but I also got some protection. Dey couldn''t starve me out while I was in de barracks."
"I did alright, made first sergeant in a couple years. Not much to do, but I knowed dat as long as I was a soldier, dem awlmen couldn''t touch me. Dat is what I knowed, but a man can know a mighty lot of wrong things in his time."
"Dis awl corprotation, dey attacked us. My company. Nobody could figure it, we was in different fields, we din''t have overlappin'' lands, and de attacks wasn''t much to talk of. But I knew why. Once dey figured out where I was at, dey did dey last attack on us."
"It was a b¨ºte, a stupid attack. Dey arrayed up, but we was fortified, dey had acres of ground to cover, dere was no winning it de way dey played it. Everybody was scratchin'' dey heads about what de awlmen was up to. Even I din''t understand, until dey started."
"See, back den, when you worked for a corprotation, in a war dey could call you up for soldierin'', no matter what your job was. An'' well, dem awlmen had hired up all my family."
"What happened?" Oliver asked gently.
"I done my duty."
Silence ringed the table for a long minute.
"After," Daugereaux continued, "I quit all dat job. I couldn''t take no more of it. I went home, done up my will proper, as best I could to make it a snarl for de awlmen to take, loaded up my shotgun and waited. I couldn''t stop ''em, but I could make it expensive on ''em."
"And then what happened?"
"Nothin''. I''m still waitin''. It was aroun'' dat time dey figured out dat fusion, so all de oil everybody was using, suddenly dey din''t need so much of. Dat corprotation just kind of dried up. Still dere, but dey din''t need near as much awl as dey used to had."
"An'' dat. Dat is why. Dey done dat to my fam''ly, throwed ''em at me to kill all dem, just for dey stupid plans, plans dat din''t even mean nothing a month later. And now, and now," Daugereaux said, heating up again, "dis other corprotation has gone and done de same thing to dese soldiers. Dey hired ''em just to kill ''em! All for some wicked plan, jus'' to cover dem crimes dey already done. It is one thing to murder a man, dat is a sin. But to murder a hunnert men to pretend a sin ain''t happen, dat is wickedness beyond!"
"Mr. Daugereaux," Fleer cut in, "I understand your feelings on the matter, but--"
"You ain''t understand nothin''!" Daugereaux screeched, advancing on Fleer. "Dey ain''t doin'' dis to me again!"
"Daugereaux! This is bigger than you! That''s what I''m trying to tell you! The only way their plan works is if we''re all dead! And they know there''s somebody in this swamp who knows their secret! They''ve got a crew of black ops, high-end killers! All we can hope to do now is escape. We can do that and get you and Ma Daugereaux someplace safe, set you up some new identities--"
"No!" he yelled, slamming his fist again. "I will not run from dis again! I am goin'' to die fightin'' down dis, dis evil. Now I unnerstan'' if you don''t want to stay for dat, and dat is beyon'' what y''all signed up for, but I will pay you, I will pay you all triple de original contrac'' if you stay an'' help me kill dese wicked men."
Fleer''s first instinct was to run the calculation in his head and realize that even at triple rate, the money still fell well short of what they owed Pearce. And he hated himself a little more for thinking that way.
"Oh really, Mr. Daugereaux--"
"I''m in," D''khara said, standing. "What they did is wrong and I''m with Mr. Daugereaux. I''ll stand against it."
"Me too," rumbled Oliver.
"My sheep hanged a camel? Or a lamb!" Roger said.
"Yeah, I guess triple pay sounds all right," Little Timmy said.
Fleer gaped at his crew. Daugereaux stood firm, chest out, arms crossed, wearing a mirthless smile of satisfaction.
Outpaced by events, confused and befuddled, Fleer began to experience a new, unfamiliar feeling. It started deep in his chest and welled up and it took him a minute to recognize what it was.
Pride. Possibly for the first time, he was proud of his company and the people in it.
"Well... well said, men. And Mr. Daugereaux. And you''re right. This needs to be stopped. And we will stop it. We''ll stop it and expose Cryocorp." He snatched up his datapad and spun through some forms, hunting up old, little-used bylaws and contract templates. He whipped through them, slammed the submission button, then laid the datapad down on the table.
"I''ve filed the forms. It''s official. Riotfish is now at war with Tapstrike." 41 - Preparing for War
"I''ve looked through their staffing list, and I count forty-two men. Looking at the reviews and testimonials, it looks like they''re accustomed to working as a pack; they all show up for every job. That means that the five of us--"
"Six," Daugereaux reminded him.
"Six of us, yes, thank you, are facing forty-two--"
"Thirty-eight!" Roger chirped.
"Thirty-eight, right, thirty-eight black ops."
"So how do we do this, boss-man? That''s a lot of dudes to kill."
"The dudes oppose," Roger added.
"Yes. Well, first and foremost, we have the advantage of surprise on our side."
"Surprise?" D''khara asked. "But didn''t we just declare war on them?"
Fleer rocked his hand back and forth.
"We did, but that''s mostly a legal thing. The papers are filed in all the appropriate places, but it''s not like planting a flag in someone''s territory. Unless somebody on their end is paying close attention, they probably have no idea."
D''khara "hmm"ed thoughtfully.
"So what does it mean, exactly, that we declared war on them?"
"Well, the short version is that we are looking to force concessions from them through force of arms."
"What concessions did we state?" Oliver asked.
"I kind of left that part blank," Fleer admitted. "We can put in whatever we want when we win."
"So you can put dem out of bidness wit'' dat?" Daugereaux asked.Support the creativity of authors by visiting the original site for this novel and more.
"Eeeeeh, not as such. I mean, theoretically? But if that''s on the table then it just becomes a war of attrition. There''s no point in them surrendering."
"So if the concessions we''re after are ambiguous, what can they do to stop the war?" Oliver asked.
"Yeah, how do we win?" Little Timmy chipped in.
"Okay! So maybe I didn''t think it through all the way! We''ll figure it out. In any case, first we have to secure the Daugereaux household. That would be at the top of the treaty. Then of course, the standard non-retaliation clauses. We could force them to publicly divulge their deal with Cryocorp. Maybe we can squeeze some cash out of them. Hm."
"So what happens if we lose?" D''khara asked.
"If we lose? Well, what Tapstrike wants is for this whole situation to be silenced. Permanently. War or no war, our outcome is the same if we lose."
The group considered this for a minute.
"Now, from what we''ve seen," Fleer said, briskly changing the subject, "they operate in cells of two or three men, so we won''t have to face a massed force. They''ve been blanket jamming communications. I''m assuming that''s to keep any information from leaking out. That means that we can''t use radios, but neither can they. Fortunately, we''ve got Daugereaux'' hardline to work with, so we''re not completely blind."
"They''ll have a regular touchpoint, probably daily, so we want to hit them hard and fast, before they realize anything''s going on. The more of them we can take out on this first day, the easier our job will be. Once they realize what''s happening, they''ll go on the defensive."
"How do we find them?"
"We have to assume that they''ve eliminated all of the Ready/Impact soldiers by now. That means the only reason for them to stay here is to discover and eliminate any remaining witnesses."
"Which is just my luck that they found the stupid bandage," D''khara grumbled, too quietly for anyone to hear.
"They''ll probably have the highway watched," Fleer continued, "and be searching the woods. It''s going to take them a while to find their way down here to the cabin, but we''ll all want to stay away from it in any case, since it will attract attention."
"Ain''t leavin''," Ma Daugereaux said. She was rolling out biscuit dough on the kitchen counter.
"Lord, woman, ain''t you hear the man? Dey gonna come in shootin''!"
"Dat''s menfolk bidness," she said. "But if anybody want to try to take me out my house, dey gon'' end up in my soap-makin'' tub out back."
"Gah-day-dawnh, if you ain''t about de hard-headedest woman I ever did know."
"I married you, didn''t I?" she rejoined.
Fleer stepped in to refocus the conversation.
"So I think it''s best if we do the same as Tapstrike, pair off and hunt for them. Better still if we can bait them, and lead them into a trap."
General assent followed this plan.
"Let''s get some rest. Tomorrow the Riotfish are going to war." 42 - The Tapstrike War, Day One - First Contact
It was the next morning. The six warriors were at the Riotfish camp, preparing to move out. They''d paired off: Fleer and Daugereaux to start, Oliver and D''khara, and after some concerned consideration on Fleer''s part, Roger and Little Timmy.
The weather was already warm, and a thick fog had settled over the swamp, diffusing the light and lending an eerie feel to the proceedings. A rich, organic odor filled the stagnant air.
Everyone finished gearing up. They gathered together in the growing, amorphous light.
Fleer addressed his misshapen, unlovely crew.
"Fellows, we''re going to do something today that rarely happens any more. We''re going to start a war. We all know the stakes. Our lives, and the Daugereaux'', depend on us winning. There''s no second place now.
"Be careful," Fleer said quietly. "These are not your typical grunts. They''re highly-trained and well-equipped, real heavy hitters. Fall back or run away if you need to, but don''t surrender. They''re not here for prisoners. And if you see an opportunity to take one out from behind, don''t get confused by any notions of fair play or honest chances. We''re outmanned and outgunned, and I can assure you they''re not going to be fair to you. That is all."
Little Timmy gazed around in the dim morning light. Roger had run off again, but the occasional giggle in the fog reassured Little Timmy that he was close by.
Little Timmy blundered through the underbrush. Woods were not his thing. Bugs were not his thing. Fog and mornings in general were not his thing. Bodies of water were most definitely not his thing. He was not made for stealth in the woods. He was made for shrieking across a desert landscape in a bespoke vehicle fighting for gasoline, and was intensely uneasy around growing, creeping things.
"Roger?"
The Dipso shimmied down out of a nearby tree.
"Zip! Zip!" Roger said.
"Have you seen any sign of these black ops? I''m starting to get the creeps."
"Yep!" Roger chirped, holding up his bloody knife. "A-one, and a-two, and a one-two-three-four!"
"You... four? You took out four of them? How?"
"Marvelous darling distraction! They follow you! I follow them! Pokeys!"
Little Timmy blanched.
"I don''t like that approach."
"Them neither!" giggled Roger, as he melted back into the fog.
Antone and Ricardo, dressed in black, sat on their haunches in the swamp. They shared a hot mealpak, designed to produce warm food without a visible fire. The fog was starting to burn off, and visibility was improving. They would be heading out to hunt soon.
"Somebody got Reynolds," Antone said.
"''Bout time. He was a disaster waiting to happen," Ricardo responded.
"Myra found him. His body. She said it looked like somebody went crazy on him with a knife."
"Huh. And here I always thought one of his nutty exes would do him in."
Antone shrugged.
"We all gotta go sometime. You ever think about how you''ll eat it?"
"Me? I''m gonna retire. Little cabin in the woods, garden out back. Gonna take it easy."
Antone laughed.
"Retire? You? You''ll be doing this ''til the day you die."
"Nah. Maybe. It''s nice to think about though."
"Yeah. Say, do you think--"
There was a muted cough from the fog.
"What was that?"
Antone was answered by the roar of a Zentech cannon. The shaped-explosive warhead blew through the both of them sitting there, not detonating until it impacted a tree in the distance, exploding in a huge shower of sparks and flaming foliage that sizzled as it settled on the damp ground.
The only things left where they had been squatting were two pairs of smoking boots, and a very wide mess.
The noise of the cannon echoed through the woods.
"Was that really necessary?" D''khara asked, coughing again. He had a tickle in his throat that wouldn''t go away.
"Sorry. The Zentech''s what I''ve got."
"Well there are no tanks out here to use it on. Let''s move, that''s sure to have drawn attention." They trudged through the woods for a bit, when D''khara came to a decision.
"You know what? Actually, let''s head back to camp. We forgot something."
Back at camp, D''khara rooted around in the equipment pile for a minute, pulled something out, and returned to Oliver, looking as shifty as if he were preparing for an illicit transfer of company stocks.
"Oliver, I have something for you." D''khara glanced around.
"Oh? For me?"
"Yeah. You know how you''ve been saying you need a machine gun, but it''s not in the budget? Well I found some stuff in one of the caches, and Fleer said it was okay, and Daugereaux let me into his workshop to run the arc welder and use some tools, and well... here."
D''khara handed Oliver a long object wrapped in a dirty cloth. Puzzled, Oliver slowly unwrapped it. Nestled within was the oddest looking gun Oliver had ever seen. He lifted it clear of the cloth and his breath caught.
"D''khara, are these Strauss machine guns?"
"Yeah, and once we''re back to HQ I''ll clean up the welds and re-blue the whole thing. And I didn''t have any files, so I''ll knock the corners off too, and it still needs some work to synchronize the timing between the two actions, but most of the--"If you spot this narrative on Amazon, know that it has been stolen. Report the violation.
"This is amazing," Oliver breathed. He shouldered the weapon.
It looked for all the world like two Strauss .30 caliber machine guns that had been welded together, because that is precisely what it was. Two barrels thrust proudly from the weapon, with circular magazines slotted into either side of the receiver. The stock had been replaced with a carved cypress knee, long enough for Oliver to shoulder comfortably with his long arms, and a pistol grip of the same wood nestled below the actions. Two triggers jutted down from the actions. The trigger guards had been cut off, being too small to admit Oliver''s finger, and the triggers themselves had been welded together with a piece of bar stock in between, to turn them into a single long trigger.
"It''s not quite done, but I figure this will work better out here than your Zentech."
Oliver''s eyes glistened.
"Thank you very much, D''khara. This is perfect. It''s better than anything I could have hoped for."
"It''s... I mean, you can''t say all that until you shoot it."
"It''s the best because you made it for me."
D''khara, standing there in intensely embarrassed silence, had no idea what to say.
"You are pretty light on dem feet, chief," Daugereaux said.
"Ah, thank you," Fleer replied. "You move very quietly yourself."
They moved through the woods a bit longer.
"So how many of dem nasty black ops we got to finish off today?" Daugereaux asked.
"Hmm. I''m hoping we can take at least half of them. If we''re careful, I think we easily have one day to work on them before they catch on. Then things will start to get dicey."
"Careful? Your boys don''t strike me as de careful type."
Fleer grimaced.
"You''re not wrong, but they''re unreasonably effective nonetheless. I guess we just need body count today. Shave those numbers back."
They moved through the woods in silence, Fleer with his smooth, noiseless gait that made him look like he was at a classy ball in spite of his fatigues and rumpled air, and Daugereaux ambling along beside him, by all appearances paying no attention to his surroundings, but never stepping on a twig nor brushing against so much as a single leaf. Whereas Fleer moved in unnatural silence, Daugereaux moved with the sounds of the swamp, fitting seamlessly into his surroundings.
"So." Fleer decided to try his hand at conversation. "You have any alligators down here? I''ve heard stories."
"Stories is about all we got left of de gators down dis way. Dey is still a few, but dey stay well away. Last time when dem awlmen came t''rue, a couple of ''em got gator-bit. Maybe somebody encouraged dat. But den de awlmen, dey put out a bounty and shot up all de gators dey could find. It could be dat whoever encouraged de gators to go at de awlmen felt mighty ashamed of what he done, and promised himself never to use gators as a weapon no more."
"I see."
"How about you? Where you found all dem boys? You all is a strange crew."
Fleer smiled a little and nodded.
"We are. Mrs. Meade, she''s not here with us, but she and Little Timmy came with the business when I bought it. I hired Oliver shortly afterward-- he was working on the Fifth District docks in Concordium, if you can imagine. All that brainpower, and they were just using him to move things around." Fleer shook his head. "D''khara is our most recent hire. He came in a few weeks ago from some bad situation. I didn''t ask too many questions."
Daugereaux looked askance at Fleer.
"''Didn''t axe too many questions''? Ain''t dat ekzackly a kind of a thing you are supposed to do before you hire someone?"
"Maybe. But he was good at what he did, and we''ve been needing an armorer. And there aren''t any of us that didn''t come into the Riotfish from a bad situation. Even me."
"So what''s your story, den? How come you ain''t out schmoozin'' it up wit'' all de udder corporate types?"
"I-- my conscience got in the way of my work. It''s a long, mostly boring story."
"And you ain''t said nothin'' about dat strange boy Roger. Where he come from?"
"You know, we''re not having a lot of luck finding these guys traveling together. Maybe we should split up, cover more ground."
Daugereaux stared thoughtfully at Fleer.
"I think dat''s maybe a good idear. I''ll cover de east side, north of de house, and you can look all around in de middle."
"Yeah, that sounds good. We''ll meet back up at the camp tomorrow morning, how about?"
"Dat sounds good to me. Good huntin'' to you."
"You too."
Lucas leaned back against a tree, resting. His eyes were half-open, and his brain was half-asleep, watching and recharging at the same time. He''d been scouring the woods all day, trying to find the person or persons that were with them in the swamp. They had to make sure that every witness was accounted for. Every single one.
Thoroughness is the watchword of the Tapstrike soldier.
He reflected on the operation so far. The ambush had been straightforward enough. The Ready/Impact mannequins had boiled into the kill zone exactly as they''d planned, all bluster and noise and chaos. The cargo doors had locked down, and the Tapstrikers on the walkways overhead had dropped a series of grenades to drive the dummies into cover, cover that had been specifically set up to leave them open to fire from above.
He had not expected that part to be at all difficult, but it had been shockingly easy. Almost no fire came back at the Tapstrikers at all. He''d done his fair share of barrel-fishing, but nothing like this.
It was easy to beat soldiers that you''d hand-picked to be losers.
Tapstrike should hire all their enemies, he thought with dry amusement. It hadn''t been combat; it had been a slaughter. Almost mechanical, nothing like a good blood-and-bones encounter.
The only setback had been the escapees. An unlucky bit of shrapnel had popped one of the doors loose, and a couple of Ready/Strike dummies had escaped. They''d since been accounted for, but one of them had received medical attention from someone. Which meant there were witnesses. Which meant that the job wasn''t done.
Thoroughness is the watchword of the Tapstrike soldier.
Of course, some of the Tapstrikers argued that the dummy had tried to use the bandage himself, but that didn''t seem likely-- why wait until he was almost dead from blood loss to figure out he needed bandaging?-- and in any case, they had to make sure.
Which was why they were canvassing the swamp, trying to figure out who else was even out here. The nearest town was dozens of miles away, and the Ready/Impact soldiers were all accounted for. Lucas was quite curious about who was out here and what they were up to.
The movement that caught his eye wasn''t obvious at first. Initially his brain dismissed it as a plant shifting in the wind. The lack of wind noise was odd enough to alert him. He snapped to full consciousness, controlled his breathing, and quietly reached for his rifle.
He silently lifted his rifle to his shoulder and scanned the area. The woods were not impenetrable, but they were thick enough that visibility was limited to a couple dozen feet. Vegetation covered every square inch of ground.
Every morning, Lucas spent ten minutes silencing his gear. Everything was secured: tied down, zipped up, buckled, or packed tight in a pocket or pouch. Some of the guys thought that was over the top, but it came in handy precisely at moments like these, when you had to be able to move without making a single sound.
Holding his rifle out with one hand, he braced himself against the tree to stand. Scanning the surrounding woods, Lucas slowly raised himself to his feet.
As he straightened his legs, one tired knee cracked loudly in the stillness of the woods. A tiny rustle off in the greenery hinted that he''d been made. With a sharp grimace that spoke as clearly as a swear, he melted back into the woods.
He took only a second to consider his options. Any intruders would head to the spot where they''d heard the noise. Moving right, he swept in a wide, lateral arc through the woods, picking his way through with utmost care, to maintain silence. He set up behind a thick tree for cover and lined his sights up on the tree he''d been resting against only a minute earlier. He carefully drew his eyes back and forth across the woods, looking for any hint of movement.
One of the waist-high plants with spiky leaves near the tree shuddered slightly. It was called a palmetto plant, if he remembered correctly. Lucas immediately focused on the plant. He briefly considered spraying it down, but he held, wanting to make sure of his target. No sense in giving away his position until he had a clean shot. He watched the spiky leaves, now stock-still, with a laser focus.
The seconds ticked by, and the plant didn''t move again. At sixty seconds, Lucas wondered if his prey had slipped away. By the time ninety seconds had passed, he began to worry that the palmetto had been an intentional distraction. He decided to displace, just in case.
As he moved his foot back to step away, Fleer''s rifle went off, no more than eighteen inches from Lucas''s ear, sending a bullet through his skull. He dropped to the ground hard and lay still.
"Agh," Fleer said.
Fleer preferred knives, not only because they were a badge of an assassin''s skill, but also because you could control the spray and the spread of blood. The backsplash from the rifle had coated him with a fine mist.
At least he wasn''t in a suit.
Scrubbing ineffectually at his face, Fleer faded back into the woods.